


The Wicked Night

by The_Pen_and_the_Sword



Series: The Immortal's Encore [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Merlin, Drama, Gen, Time Travel Fix-It, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23962189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pen_and_the_Sword/pseuds/The_Pen_and_the_Sword
Summary: Merlin has returned to the past, for good or ill. Soon Arthur will come into his throne...if Merlin allows Arthur's father to die. He must face the reality of what he needs to do to fulfill his destiny, as well as the inevitable consequences of altering time. He must tread carefully, for now is when the foundations of the Golden Age are laid. Part 2 of The Immortal's Encore.
Series: The Immortal's Encore [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/963381
Comments: 56
Kudos: 216





	1. Prologue: A Moment of Peace

It was a beautiful autumn day. The air was cool, but the sun cut through a few scraps of cloud to bathe the earth in warmth. The trees were an explosion of colors: gold, orange, russet brown, bright red, deep purple, and the last fading traces of green. The pond was blanketed with a multicolored sheet of fallen leaves. Around the water, along the paths, and spread over the tiny green hills were crowds of people: families with small children, pairs of teens kicking a football between them, loners walking their dogs, and joggers taking laps of the small park. Nathan wished he could enjoy it more.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Straightening from his slouch on the bench, Nathan pulled it out. _Fancy a coffee? I’m not far now,_ the screen read.

_Make it black. I’m at a bench by the water._ He hit send and then slumped back. He tried to get caught up in the joyful atmosphere that surrounded him. He watched a little boy, no older than two, toddling about on the grass to the cheers of his parents before dropping clumsily onto his bottom. Nathan smiled wistfully, but all he felt inside was nervous. 

He didn’t realize he had spaced out until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He felt his magic snap to life inside him like a tiny firecracker and the hand jerked back. Nathan whipped around. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“Why so tense?” James chuckled in his deep, smooth voice, wiping his hand on his jumper. “You’d think I’d have learned to use a stick by now.” His dark eyes and equally dark face were lit with amusement. 

Nathan’s expression fell flat, and he turned back to staring across the pond. “I’d probably just blow up the stick,” he said darkly. 

James claimed the other side of the bench, passing over one of the paper cups he carried. “Come now, it’s not as bad as all that.” When Nathan merely grunted and sipped morosely at his coffee, he reached over and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Nathan was ready for it this time and didn’t react. “See? You’re perfectly fine. Although I notice you’re still wearing contacts.”

Nathan shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.” He kept his artificially brown eyes on his beverage.

James had always been a sensitive person and knew when to change the subject. “It’s been month. How are you liking Cardiff?” he asked with a smile, his eyes scanning the idyllic park scene.

“It’s been… nice. Strange, living on my own again after so long. Very happy to have a bathroom to myself.”

“I think those complaints are aimed towards Sara, not me or Xavier,” James reminded him. “And your job?”

“Waiting tables isn’t exactly thrilling work, but sometimes simplicity makes for a good break. I’ve done enough high intensity jobs before to have earned it.”

Nathan could feel James eyeing him. A sensitive nature also meant perceptive. “But something’s still bothering you,” he stated.

Instead of answering, Nathan began chugging the coffee. His mind was fixed back at his apartment. When he’d left it, the place had been a mess of books, crudely crafted timelines, and notes tacked everywhere. He had been reluctant to leave it at all, even to meet his friend. Coffee now finished, he got up to throw it away. When he returned, he reclined back and remained silent. 

What Nathan loved most about his friend was how easy it was to be around him. Even if James could probably see the guilty nerves boiling under Nathan’s skin, the dark-skinned man said nothing about it. Instead he settled back himself, kicking out his long limbs and relaxing. They both watched the clouds go by, then a train of bikers zipping past, and then a small flock of ducks alighting on the leaf-choked pond. 

No matter what happened, Nathan would miss this. He would miss James, as steady a friend as he’d had in many years. Sara and Xavier too, with their boundless energies that could erase his long loneliness for a time. 

“I was born in Wales, you know,” Nathan said suddenly.

“Really?” James looked over at him, considerable surprise on his face. It was impressive that he didn’t follow up with the question of when. The three of his friends knew that Nathan was much older than he looked, but he had never told them just how old. That was often how it went; enough generalities for people to make assumptions, but never all the details. The details were where things got ugly. 

Nathan nodded. “Yes. Farther north, but close enough. I felt like something was calling me back. Calling me home.”

“I know that feeling.”

“Do you ever think of going home? Finding your family again?”

James’s large eyes grew somber and his posture slumped. “All the time. I want to go back to them more than anything, but I know that can’t happen. Things are…well, people like us can’t just go back to normal, can we?”

Nathan felt a bit of a chill and the day grew a bit darker. A cloud had very suddenly scurried across the sun. Nathan looked quickly at his James’ eyes but saw nothing. If they had flashed gold, he had missed it. He swallowed hard, but the obstruction in his throat didn’t go away. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.

“Don’t,” James said, waving as if to bat the apology away. The sadness immediately cleared from his face and the gentle smile was back. Nathan wasn’t the only one skilled in putting up a front. “There will be more of us again, one day. You’ll see,” he said reassuringly. 

Nathan’s thoughts went back to his apartment, and the research that lay unfinished, calling to him. 

Calling him home. 

“You’re right. There will be. I’ll make sure of it.” He swore it.

“Even someone as powerful as you can’t make promises like that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... yeah.
> 
> Hello, everyone. I've been gone a while, which is a damn shame, but hey, it's Pandemic Palooza 2020. Might as well start getting back into projects I've let sit on the shelf for far too long, right? Plus, this series has been on my mind even when I've left it so long; there are so many ideas I want to bring to fruition, and I can't let myself abandon them, not without an effort. So, here we are. Hopefully this momentum keeps going. 
> 
> Wish me luck, and I hope you all enjoy :)


	2. Morning

Arthur woke up slowly, which was unusual. A sliver of light peeked into the room from a crack in the curtains. He could see a breakfast platter set on his desk, next to an intimidating stack of papers.

For a moment he allowed himself to simply lie back, trying to enjoy this little freedom. Merlin wasn't here to yank the curtains open and shout his usual morning greeting. His servant's temporary replacement was an efficient fellow, and not intrusive. Arthur had damn near jumped for joy at the start, but as the days went by the feeling had lessened. Merlin might not be here to wake him up with his typical obnoxious cheer, but that stack of papers did the job just fine. If not that, maybe it was a council meeting, or a court of commons to preside over, or going over finances.

Arthur groaned and sat up. The day was just starting and he already felt exhausted. The Samhain celebration three weeks ago had been a brief, blessed relief from the constant weight of responsibility he now dealt with daily, but the respite was over. As much as he would like to roll over and go back to sleep, the thought of his father's kingdom resting in his hands got him up. He didn't have much on the morning's agenda, but it was the responsible thing to start on the waiting stack, no matter how much the outdoors called to him.

The prince flopped down in his chair and grabbed the first sheaf from the top of the pile, a report on the year's last harvests and their storage, and got to work.

It didn't take long before his eyes began to wander, skimming the page without taking things in. The slightly opened window behind him was letting the noise of the central courtyard creep in. Distracting. He shook his head and focused harder, grabbing an apple from his breakfast plate and biting into it determinedly. It couldn't be any worse than Merlin's usual chirping while he went about his chores.

It was slow going. Any work involving numbers usually was. Arthur had had the finest tutoring in the land and he knew he was capable, it was just the concentration that was difficult. His father had always said he was a warrior born, so his patience for the written logistics of the kingdom had never been very high, nor had it ever been such a priority for him before. The prince's duties involved the army and defense, not the facts and figures.

The light coming in had the brightness of late morning and his breakfast was down to a lone sausage by the time Arthur sat back. He looked at his work completed compared to what remained. It seemed like he had hardly made a dent. He groaned and dropped his head to his desk for a moment.

It shot right back up again when he heard the door creak. His temporary servant poked his head in.

"Ah, Sire. Um, if it please you, I can help you dress if you're finished."

Arthur grunted in acknowledgement and gladly got out of his chair. The servant scurried to the wardrobe to see about the prince's outfit.

If it had been Merlin, Arthur might have felt free to complain. Or he might have picked on him a bit to relieve some stress. Merlin was multi-functional that way. With this servant, though, those options were unavailable. He couldn't be airing his issues to some stranger, and he felt if he did poke at him the way he did Merlin, the man would panic. By all good things, he actually _missed_ the idiot.

Arthur's face scrunched up in thought as his servant handed him his clothes and he went behind the changing screen. He might be missing Merlin's more useful aspects, but he thought he'd been right to give him the time off. His manservant had been acting a little odd since Samhain.

He couldn't tell if that was when it started or if it was just when he'd finally taken notice, but things had definitely felt strange in the week or so following the celebration. Not that Merlin wasn't already odd, but in a way that wasn't usual for him. Aside from being sick, which was rare, his servant had felt distant, like he wasn't really there all the time. He was quiet too, which seemed to get on Arthur's nerves even more than his prattling.

"All right, what's going on?" he'd finally said in exasperation a few days into the weird behavior. Merlin, who had been floating about the room in conspicuous silence as he tidied up, had turned to him.

"What do you mean?"

"You've had your head stuck in the clouds for days, and I don't think you've gone outside once. You're not ill anymore, so what's the problem?"

He'd caught a flash of frustration, but when Merlin met his gaze Arthur had gotten the unsettling feeling of being stared through rather than at.

"Nothing. Just a bit homesick, is all," Merlin had said, brushing it off.

He had mentioned missing his mother on Samhain. Arthur had had a feeling it wasn't the only thing bothering him, but he hadn't pried. The man's business was his own, and considering some of the things he'd caught Merlin doing in the past, Arthur was happy to leave it to itself. Instead, he'd given him leave to travel back to Ealdor for a little while. By the time he returned he would have hopefully worked off his melancholy, with his mother's help.

Unfortunately, the gloominess seemed to have been catching. Now dressed and ready, Arthur stepped out from behind the screen and dismissed his servant. He still had some free time before an inspection of the guard in the early afternoon. The stack of paperwork was an option, but his head hurt at the very idea. Walking to the door, he determined to find something else to do.

As he set off down the hall, the lingering thoughts about Merlin and his missing his mother triggered Arthur's own sense of longing. His remaining parent was not many leagues away, he was right down a few turns of the hallway, but the distance was still felt.

 _I should visit him_ , he thought, but reluctance kept his steps from turning in that direction. Some days it was harder to see Uther like that: vacant, silent, and defeated. It went against everything he had ever known his father to be, and it was a stark reminder of how much had changed in the past year. Uther was out of commission, Arthur was managing the kingdom, and… _she_ was gone. Out there somewhere, a lurking danger, and trailing tainted memories of their years of friendship behind her.

It seemed like his mood wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon. He needed to get his mind off of it. Burning away the day at a desk certainly wasn't a good enough distraction, so he set off for the castle's main exit. Perhaps a trip into the bustle and busyness of the lower town would clear his head.

Unlike his father, Arthur had always made a habit of wandering the city. It was only recently though that he got the reactions he received today.

"Good health to you, sire!" cried a woman when he entered Merchant's Row, where the common folk from outlying farms and traveling tradesmen sold their goods. He waved to her, and to several other similar greetings called out to him. He ambled along the street, trying not to step on the occasional scuttling chicken and listening to men and women loudly advertising their wares: vegetables and fruit, fresh meat and fish, jewelry, clothing for both peasant and noble, pottery, and more valuable items brought in from beyond Camelot's borders, like spices and fine fabrics.

It was just what he needed. For all his misgivings and the extreme changes of the past year, Camelot was strong and its people content. Arthur tossed a silver coin to a fruit seller and grabbed a blushing red apple, a burst of sweetness lifting his spirits on the first bite. It had been a bountiful harvest, enough to see them well through winter. With that assurance and the sun shining in a bright sky, it was almost impossible to stay gloomy.

Perhaps he would pay a visit to Guinevere. He tripped over that thought, remembering she would already be at the castle at this hour. Perhaps he would buy her a gift instead, something pretty and thus fit for a pretty girl, and leave it at her home. Merlin might have been an absolute petticoat, but silently Arthur was willing to acknowledge his servant tended to be right when it came to dealing with women.

He was perusing the jewelry stand when whistles of warning went up along the street, and the loud clattering of hooves announced a patrol. At first there seemed to be nothing unusual, and Arthur was about to nod appreciatively to the knight in charge when he caught the looks on the faces of the four men. All of them were pale and grim.

The leader of the patrol reined his horse to a stop in front of Arthur. "Sire," the older knight, Sir Justin, said. The knight's body sat rigid on his steed, and his eyes were steely. "We have grave news."

Arthur was keenly aware of the curious eyes and ears surrounding them, so he waved the patrol on, keeping his expression neutral and posture relaxed. He would rather not spread worry. "Have your horses stabled and refresh yourselves. You may make your report at noon in the council chamber."

"As you say, my lord." Sir Justin spurred his steed and the patrol cantered up the street and out of sight. Arthur frowned. So much for his plan to surprise Guinevere. The calm he had only just achieved was already withering away.

Arthur went directly to the council chamber, sending for Gaius as well as his uncle Lord Agravaine, a fairly recent addition to the court. A bad feeling was sitting heavy in Arthur's gut, and he wanted to hear whatever was coming as soon as possible. As he waited, he paced the room. He could never bring himself to take the king's seat, even if he was the regent.

Agravaine arrived first in a swoop of his regal black cloak. "My lord, what has happened?" he inquired.

"I'm not sure," Arthur replied. "Sir Justin's patrol has returned. He only said he had something urgent to report." Although a whisper in the back of Arthur's mind pointed him toward an answer he truly hoped was not the case. He kept on pacing.

Gaius arrived shortly after, and precisely on the noon bell the group of knights made their entrance.

Sir Justin had been a knight almost since Arthur was a child. With all that experience, he was not one to beat around the bush. Arthur's hopes that the news would be anything other than what his instincts were telling him it was were dashed immediately.

"We sighted Morgana, my prince, in the region of Brechfa not far from the village of Clearford," he declared. "We marked her location but did not engage, as you had ordered."

Arthur fought hard not to let the turmoil that had been stirred up show outwardly. "You did well. Four knights on their own would be no match for her." It still felt strange and so terribly wrong to speak of the girl he had grown up with as an enemy. "Which way was she heading?" he asked.

Sir Justin exchanged glances with his still unnerved men before he said, "Toward Camelot."

Arthur's hand twitched toward where his sword normally hung at his hip. It wasn't there, but he still felt the need to have a weapon in his hand. His thoughts were on the happy, bustling marketplace, and on the stark contrast it bore to Camelot under Morgana's brief but monstrous rule. That could not happen again.

"Sire." Agravaine spoke up, stepping forward. "It is best that we organize patrols as soon as possible."

"Of course," Arthur replied. An obvious step, but it shook him out of his fumbling. He was grateful. Of all his councilors, Arthur found himself leaning on Agravaine the most. Aside from being family and quite experienced, Arthur appreciated having someone around to give advice that neither saw him as the child they had seen grow into a prince, like Gaius, or someone he needed maintain his image in front of, like his knights. The only exception was Merlin, but for all the quaint, country wisdom the younger man could display, the knowledge of a servant could only go so far. The day Agravaine arrived in the city removed a great deal of weight from Arthur's shoulders. "The moment this meeting is over the knights will summoned," he ordered before turning back to Sir Justin. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"There is little else to report. We did not draw close, but she seemed to be alone, and her direction was unwaveringly north and east."

Arthur nodded. "Very well. You are dismissed. Go and get some rest."

The knights bowed and departed. Arthur turned to Gaius. "Is there any way to prepare for her? Any anti-magic methods we could use?"

Gaius's brow was wrinkled with worry, and when he spoke he seemed half lost in thought. "Nothing that any of us here could use. And don't forget, Sire, Morgana's powers have grown. There can be no predicting what she'll do, let alone how we might stop it."

"We will stop her with the force of the knights of Camelot," Agravaine said proudly. "She will not evade us for long."

"Let's hope not," Arthur muttered almost to himself. "You are both free to go. Agravaine, if you could send the captains in to me."

"Of course." Agravaine swept a bow and took his leave. Gaius left more slowly, lingering glances at Arthur betraying his concern. The prince maintained his mask of resolve until the doors swung shut. The moment they clanged together, his shoulders and hopes dropped.

He'd become so convinced barely an hour ago that everything would be fine, that everything would go back to normal, or close to it, soon enough. He should have known better. Things had changed for good, and the sooner Arthur accepted it, the easier it would be. As he began pacing again, mind formulating the best way to organize his forces against the threat, he couldn't help missing Merlin again. It would be a relief when his servant was back, hopefully cured of his moodiness. Then at least one aspect of Arthur's life would return to the way it should be.


	3. Past, Present, and Future

Merlin stared into the little fire, mind focused. He reached out a hand, his eyes flashed gold, and the spitting sparks gathered to form an image. It was thoroughly detailed, a picture of a city skyline littered with towers and seeming to stretch a great distance.

Across the campfire, Kilgharrah stared intently at the warlock’s floating creation. It would have made a strange sight to any passersby that did not immediately flee: the giant dragon settled on its haunches with its tail twitching like a massive cat, and the man sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, hands swirling through the air as he defined the image. 

“It still blows me away sometimes, how much things changed with technology,” Merlin said quietly. “Camelot would be little more than a town by the standards of the twenty-first century. The skyscrapers that people were capable of building seemed as tall as mountains. Cities stretched for leagues. And everything was connected. Traveling beyond Albion was something I never even imagined before, but in the future there are very few places people can’t go.” His hand cut through the air again and the spark image broke apart and reformed. The city was replaced by an airplane. “Even the sky and beyond it were no longer out of reach.”

The warlock could feel the vibrations in the ground, and he looked over as Kilgharrah shifted where he crouched. “It is a strange world you describe,” the dragon rumbled. His great muzzle bore a frown. “Undesirable.”

“In some ways,” Merlin admitted, looking down again. “For a dragon it would be a very unfriendly place. Nowhere to hide.” A slight smile grew on his face. “I don’t imagine dragons and things like air traffic and no-fly zones would go over very well. It wasn’t without its wonders, though.”

The two said no more, and their secluded forest clearing once again gave way to the sounds of nature. 

Contrary to what everyone back in Camelot believed, Merlin had not been in Ealdor visiting his mother the past few weeks. The warlock had clued in quickly to how greatly his jump through time had unsettled him. He was far more unprepared than he had thought. For a few days he struggled to just slot himself back into the time-blurred routine, but it felt like being thrown on stage into a performance he knew none of the lines for. He’d skulked between Arthur’s and Gaius’s chambers, trying desperately to fit his part, but Arthur inevitably noticed.

Luckily, Merlin had given himself an out unknowingly. Blaming his behavior on homesickness—which was technically true—he was able to secure himself some time to escape and readjust out of sight. The prince had been accommodating, and Merlin had departed the city without fuss. Rather than setting out for Essetir, he had taken to the forests, to shelter in the solitude and natural magic that poured out of every rock and tree, and of course to prepare for the new future he sought to create.

Merlin’s spark creation dissipated, so he turned his attention elsewhere. On the bedroll beside him was a flat, fairly smooth stone and his pocket knife. He’d been scratching away at it over the last day or so, picking it back up when he was unoccupied. He went back to it now, the sharp point of the blade whittling fine symbols, lines, and lettering into the surface.

“Where exactly did you learn this… art?” Kilgharrah asked, peering at him. 

“Runework? Scandinavia, mostly. Lands to the east,” he clarified when the dragon’s face became exasperatedly confused. “Useful stuff, and not really used in Albion, which is an advantage for me.” He went back to his project, and they went quiet again. It had become their habit.

When he had left Camelot, Merlin had fully been expecting to be alone during his weeks away, but to his surprise Kilgharrah had begun to seek him out on a regular basis. He had thought his bullying the dragon into helping him stop Morgana would have caused Kilgharrah to avoid him, but at this point the dragon was spending practically every night in Merlin’s company. They never had much continuous conversation, but Kilgharrah would ask many questions: about things to come, and about Merlin himself. 

Out of curiosity, or assessing a possible threat? The thought was frequently on Merlin’s mind. The answer didn’t much matter in the end, so he let it lie, and he talked to Kilgharrah about the future and its many innovations, peculiarities, and horrors. His own future he kept to himself as much as he could. 

Kilgharrah’s eyes were on him again, but Merlin would let him speak in his own time. He leaned back until he was supporting himself on his elbows, tilted his head up toward the sky, and traced a shooting star as it fell into the east. A pang of longing bloomed in his chest. 

“What of dragons?” Kilgharrah asked. “Was I truly the last?”

Merlin blinked. He had made no mention of Aithusa yet; he would cross that bridge when he came to it. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he replied. He wasn’t technically telling a lie. The white dragon had died first. 

“Merlin, the short answers are not very helpful.”

The warlock hummed. “Must be frustrating, unhelpful answers. Can’t imagine what that feels like,” he said flatly. Kilgharrah snorted huffishly and Merlin thought a little more deeply on it. Aithusa had been the last-born of Albion’s dragons, but it had taken Merlin a long time after Arthur’s death to venture beyond the borders of his homeland and into the wider world. There could have been more dragons, but if there had been then Merlin had missed them. “Perhaps not. Many lands had stories of dragons, in the west and the east. They could exist all over the world.”

Kilgharrah made a great sigh. “Perhaps this fading is unavoidable. The future you have experienced seems to have no room for beings such as dragons, nor for magic as a whole, it seems.”

Merlin flipped the stone in his hands and hummed faintly. He didn’t look away. “Maybe.”

“I would still like to see these places, to discover if I am the last of my kind or not. I have never ventured beyond Albion, but perhaps it is time.” It was the dragon’s turn to look up at the stars, but to him they were not so distant as they were to Merlin. “After all, it doesn’t seem that I am very needed here any longer.”

That was a barbed comment and they both knew it, but the warlock didn’t rise to the bait. “If that’s what you think,” Merlin said. He sat up straight again and looked at Kilgharrah properly. “I’d like to ask your opinion on something,” he declared, much more directly.

If Kilgharrah had eyebrows to raise, Merlin had a feeling they would be doing it. “My opinion on what?” the dragon asked.

Merlin clenched the stone in his left hand, the scratched grooves pressing the pattern into his palm. “Arthur’s birth anniversary is coming up in a few days,” he said. “The first time this happened, Uther was mortally injured in an attempted assassination. It caused his death.”

The dragon’s head reared a bit, and he didn’t bother hiding the vindictive gleam in his eye. “So that was how the tyrant met his end,” he rumbled, almost to himself.

“Yes. Do you think I would be endangering the future if I allowed it to happen?”

The dragon’s savage triumph faded and that wary look was back on his face. It tended to appear whenever Merlin said or did something especially un-Merlin-like by Kilgharrah’s reckoning. The warlock hoped the dragon would get adjusted to his new self soon; he was getting tired of that look. 

“You know I would be the first to advocate leaving Uther Pendragon to rot,” Kilgharrah began slowly, “and if it happened the first time then perhaps it was meant to be. Why would you feel it was dangerous?”

“Because I tried to save him before.” For all the good it had done anyone. Uther still died and Arthur had become even more wary of magic. “It didn’t work out.”

Kilgharrah huffed. “Do you feel that his death caused any negative outcomes you wish to avoid?”

Merlin took a moment to think, but it wasn’t a long moment. The only negative repercussion was of Merlin’s doing, because of his interference. “No. Even if he was unsure, Arthur was ready. He made a good king.”

“It sounds as if your mind is already made up.”

“…It is,” Merlin admitted. 

“Then let fate take its course.”

They fell into silence once again, and this one was unbroken. As the fire died and the night sky spiraled away the hours, Merlin worked on the rune-etched stone meant for Arthur. He would be returning to Camelot in the morning. The very thought still felt like a dream. When his eyelids began drooping an anxious fear cropped up, a fear that he would wake again in another reality, far from his old home. But he couldn’t ward off sleep forever. Merlin nodded off to the sound of crackling flames and the Great Dragon’s rumbling breaths. 

* * *

He gulped in desperately, seeking air but getting a mouthful of bloody sand and sea spray. He wanted to roll onto his back and face the sky, but he feared to expose his stomach. He had a feeling that some of that great wash of blood staining the ground was his. 

Instead, he lifted his head, blinking grit from his stinging eyes as he fought to focus. Bodies all around. Lots of yelling. Booming. From cannons? Blasts of magic? Maybe anti-aircraft guns. He leaned towards the latter; nothing quite had that eardrum-ripping quality that heavy artillery had. Which beach was he on now? He’d been jumping them all day, helping wherever the fighting was most intense. Wherever he was now, it was bad. The lapping waves were stained crimson. 

He lost all interest in his surroundings when he caught sight of one particular body amongst the piles, broad-shouldered and blond-haired.

“N-No…” Not caring now what state his stomach was in or how tired he was, he heaved all his weight onto his forearms and elbows and began to army crawl forward, shoving past the charred husks of flesh and bone littering his path. A red trail slithered behind him.

“Arthur,” he rasped, pulling the body toward him. Was it him? The face was too dirty and shrapnel-sliced. Maybe it was Adam Hooper, from the 23rd Northumbrian. Was this the right beach? The poor boy. He had promised to protect him like he had promised his king. Failed both times.

“Come on, wake up,” he mumbled, shaking the still form as best he could, which wasn’t much. He was getting weaker; he would sleep soon, and it would be too late for Arthur or Adam by the time he woke up again. “Get up.”

Why? He had everything to give and nothing to lose. Why could he never save them? 

A sinister hum filled the air, and he hunched over the body. Whatever was going to come down on them, the least he could do was make sure something of the fallen man was returned to his loved ones. The high-pitched whine was just bordering on unbearable when Merlin’s eyes flew open.

He remained paralyzed in place for a moment, making no noise aside from a thundering heartbeat. The sounds around him belonged to a forest, not a windy, war-torn beach. The sky above him was rimmed with branches, not empty and wide.

Once he was assured that yes, he was home in Camelot and not spilling his guts on a battle field somewhere, Merlin noticed that he was floating a meter off of the ground and that a cloud of leaves, stones, and the contents of his travel pack was drifting around him in lazy orbitals. Sighing deeply, he lowered himself and the floating debris back to solid ground. Merlin looked around, rubbing his eyes. Kilgharrah was gone and the fire had gone out. It looked like he still had some time left before sunrise. 

It seemed like sleeping was over for the night; he doubted he could go back to it after a dream like that. His issues with nightmares were not nearly as bad as they used to be, but they still popped up sometimes. This one was fairly middle of the road, but unsettling enough. Slightly missing the conveniences of the future, where he could zone out on television until the sun came up, Merlin put his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair.

It was definitely time to head back home. The dream was probably a sign: too much time away from Arthur. 

Scattering the remaining ashes and collecting his things, Merlin set off into the woods at a brisk pace, feet crunching against the frosty grass. He would likely reach Camelot by mid-afternoon.

As he walked, Merlin allowed himself to get lost in his surroundings. It was a good distraction from the dream. He stretched his lanky frame, goosebumps crawling up his arms and waking him up in a wonderful way. Only in the wildest of places could one find such fresh air as this in the future. Now, before the waking of the day when the air was just cold enough to be icy when he breathed in deeply, it felt especially good. The earth’s magic was flowing through everything, and it made Merlin feel young again.

He paused. He was fairly sure there were no settlements nearby, no reason for anyone to be out here, especially at this time. That living rhythm beneath his feet was just too tempting. Deciding he was isolated enough to be safe, Merlin let the guards down on his own power. Not all the way of course, but like a relaxing of the shoulders. Immediately a connection was made. While he knew the earth lived around him, in the future it had always been faint, especially when he was blocking, like distant music felt through a wall or floor. Now, when he wasn’t wrapping all his power tight beneath his skin and bones and magic was strong once more, it leapt out to link hands and join the flow of the world. Out here, with no interference from civilization, the pulse was natural and his own heartbeat followed it willingly. When Merlin set off again, he was one with the magic of the earth. Where he walked, the light frost of encroaching winter melted from the grass, and tiny buds of yellow and white flowers sprung up. He could hear scuffling in the undergrowth even at fair distances; probably the night creatures investigating this shift in their environment. He paid them no mind, and walked along falling more and more deeply into the forest’s rhythm. If he cared to tune in, he would be able to feel the movement of woodland life around him, even a faint buzz of waking instincts if he concentrated hard. He let it rest though, all of it a comforting haze around him. 

Forests had always been his sanctuary. In his early days it was typically a safe place, where he could be himself and use his abilities without constantly looking over his shoulder. The wild places were also where he felt most natural. He was born of their magic; he protected them, and they protected him.

But soon Merlin would have to step out of the comforting seclusion and back into Camelot, into his role and all that it entailed. He frowned as he ducked under a low hanging branch, sliding his way carefully into a gully. As much as he hoped otherwise, Merlin had never truly believed Morgana would heed his warning. He had done the honorable thing, so if she wanted war, then Merlin would meet her head-on. He had already made preparations in that event. He fiddled with the etched stone in his pocket; runes could be fashioned for much more deadly purposes than the one he was crafting for the prince. 

_That’s not what’s bothering me,_ he admitted internally _, it’s Uther._ He certainly wouldn’t be mourning the passing of the king, but Arthur would be. 

He was brought out of his thoughts when his way became a bit more difficult. The gully he had dropped into had deepened into a larger but still narrow ravine. Picking his path was a bit of a pain; it was almost a tunnel, cluttered with tangled tree roots and loose rocks, as well as pock-marked with small caves, but it saved him some time he would have spent going around the short cliff drops to both the north and south. 

Just as the ravine was flattening out and Merlin began to pick up his pace again, the magic rhythm jarred into discordance, screaming out a warning like a howling siren. Something, snarling, bellowing, and very large, came charging out of one of the small caves to his left, too fast for him to react voluntarily **.**

So he reacted involuntarily.

Merlin did not really know what was happening, but what he felt was an explosion of pain at the back of his neck like an iron spike had been driven through the skin, at the same time as a massive swell of murderous aggression, almost a madness came barreling toward him. His magic replied in equal force and violence. It plunged into the ground, gripped hold of what it found, and then tore back to the surface. Merlin doubled over as the pain peaked, just as the ground around him exploded in a shower of dirt and rushing wind, the air filled with creaking and roaring. The crescendo was abruptly cut off with the unmistakable sound of flesh being pierced, and an animalistic wail trailing off into a dying rattle. 

Merlin, still bent over and eyes watering as the pain trailed away into aching throbs, waited a few moments. That connection was gone, his attacker obviously dead. His mouth was growing very dry, and before too many unpleasant ideas could build up, he raised his eyes.

It was a bear, or had been, looking starved and wasted from what he could see of it. Perhaps it was desperate for food as the year grew colder. Whatever the case, the creature was now dead, strangled and impaled by a crushing cage of large roots that hadn’t been there before, having exploded up from the ground in an instant to pin it against the far wall of the ravine. Its face was frozen in a savage snarl even as dark blood dribbled from between its yellow teeth. 

Merlin straightened up shakily. The back of his neck was still pulsing in hot waves, but he did his best to ignore it. He didn’t want to hang around looking at that. He stumbled off quickly, and as he went he severed his connection to the forest around him. His magic was drawn back within himself, held tightly and hidden away. The thought that he should have known better sat accusingly at the front of his mind throughout the rest of his hike home. The way he was now, he could never afford to not be cautious. 

The sun was slanting lower in the sky when Camelot’s white turrets came into view. As he approached the main gates, he loosened up his walk into a casual stride and hooked his thumbs into the straps of his travel pack, banishing all thought of the earlier occurrence from his mind. His expression became airy, ready to smile at any moment. Walking through the Lower Town, he waved and nodded to passing faces. It was best he began to reintegrate himself right away. 

Merlin hurried his way up toward the citadel. It had been a chilly day, and he was looking forward to getting back inside and warming up some. He would have to drop off his things and then stop by Arthur’s rooms. 

Jogging into the courtyard, Merlin slowed down the moment he saw the cluster of knights in full regalia milling about near the front doors. Something in the air was off, an unease that the attentive could feel.

Merlin spotted a familiar mop of dark hair amongst the group and a shock of nervousness ran through him. Gwaine. He hadn’t really talked to any of his friends since his return, aside from Lancelot on that first day. In the few days before he had left, he’d stayed mostly out of sight under the pretext of not wanting to spread his faked illness. 

Merlin thought he might be able to slip into the castle without being noticed, but then Gwaine looked up. By the smile that broke out on the knight’s face, Merlin knew he’d been sighted. As Gwaine separated himself from the group and approached him, Merlin kept a grip on his relaxed posture and put on a smile. It still felt like being embraced by a stranger when Gwaine drew him into a brief, one-armed hug. 

“Good to have you back, mate,” Gwaine exclaimed. Merlin patted him on the back, feeling exceptionally awkward doing so and letting out a breath of relief when it was over. “Everything go all right?” Even with his usual easy smile fixed on his face, that same tension was present, and Merlin thought Gwaine had given him a once-over, as if to check that all was normal. 

“Yeah, it was fine. It was good to see my mother after so long,” Merlin said, rubbing at the back of his neck. His gaze flicked over to the gathering again. “What’s going on?” 

Gwaine’s smile fell away. “That obvious, huh? Got a messenger in yesterday. Morgana’s been spotted.”

Merlin blew out a breath. As he had thought. “When? Where?”

“Four days ago now, somewhere between Brechfa and the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Arthur’s been organizing more regular patrols.”

Merlin nodded, chewing on his lower lip. “I guess I should get back to him. Things will be getting busy.” In more ways than one.

“Might want to watch out,” Gwaine warned teasingly. “You know the kind of strop he gets into when he’s under pressure. You only just got back; can’t have his highness biting your head off.”

Merlin gave his friend an appreciative smile before making for one of the side entrances.

“Merlin!”

He turned back around.

“If you have to leave the city again for any reason, collect herbs for Gaius or whatever else, watch yourself,” Gwaine said, a serious concern in his voice and manner that was a rarity for the brash knight. “You’re probably the last person that needs telling about how dangerous the witch is.”

Merlin pursed his lips. “Probably.” He made the sarcastic smirk obvious, even if as he felt an upwelling of gratitude inside. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, finally managing to make it inside.

Gaius wasn’t there when Merlin stopped by his rooms, so there was nothing to delay him from seeing Arthur. That nervousness that had assaulted him on seeing Gwaine again came back twice as strong. Merlin found it ridiculous. He had already seen Arthur, had been around him for two days before he had left Camelot. Granted, he hadn’t talked much, and had taken any excuse to do work that kept him away from the prince. More than anyone else, he had had difficulty being around Arthur. 

He couldn’t hide forever, though. Standing in front of Arthur’s doors, Merlin put himself through a familiar routine. Empty his mind. Correct the posture first, loose-shouldered but straight. Set his mood; considering the news about Morgana, serious but a little sarcastic would do. Last of all, think on his words. What would Merlin say, and what would he not? When all felt right, he pushed the doors open. 

The prince was sitting at his desk, glaring down at some document or other. His head leaned into one hand with the fingers tangled in his blond hair, which was already quite mussed. Merlin took a sweep of the room. It was an absolute disaster.

Arthur snapped out of his one-man scowling contest when Merlin entered.

“Are you ever going to learn to knock?” he groused.

Merlin paused a beat before firing back, “What, no hello?”

Arthur just grunted, going back to his papers. Merlin rubbed at the back of his neck for a moment before approaching. “I, uh…I heard about Morgana.”

He got no reply. Not knowing quite where Arthur was in his headspace, Merlin didn’t know whether he would respond poorly to comfort or to Merlin just ignoring the issue. So he just lingered quietly, looking around the room. Arthur’s sword was going to need sharpening soon. The bed needed to be made. He decided that was the best place to start; Arthur could talk on his own time.

They made it about ten minutes in silence, Arthur’s quill scratching and pausing, and Merlin ruffling around with the bed clothes. The warlock imagined Arthur was too caught up in his own thoughts, but Merlin found it all incredibly uncomfortable. 

“How was your mother?” Arthur finally said, sounding absent.

Merlin paused in his pillow fluffing. “She’s doing well, even now that winter’s coming on.” He really did have to see her soon. Just not right now. Maybe in the spring. “Everything quiet here? Aside from, you know.” He scratched awkwardly at his ear.

“I’m sending out a missive to the eastern lords,” Arthur said shortly, not looking up. “Once I’m finished drafting it, you are to make copies, deliver them to Lord Agravaine when he returns to have them checked, and then have each sent off with a courier. Afterwards you can get on with whatever else you have to do.” 

Merlin frowned. Agravaine was gone? That couldn’t mean anything good, but there was nothing he could do about it for now. “Arthur,” he tried, both to distract himself and attempting some consolation, “I’m sorry about all this. It must be difficult. She’s your sister.”

“Maybe so, but she has still committed treason against the crown,” Arthur said stiffly. The noise of his quill against the paper grew harsher; Merlin imagined the paper was in danger of ripping. “That cannot go unpunished, no matter who she is.”

Merlin nodded slowly. “I know. I know that’s how things must be.” He paused. He scratched the back of his neck, deciding to tread more dangerous waters. “What would you feel, if Morgana were caught? If she were brought before you or… dealt with? By your knights or one of your lords. What would you do?”

Arthur speared Merlin with a look. It was the guarded face of a king that was determined to appear unshaken, but useless against those who knew him well. Merlin had almost forgotten it. “I don’t know, Merlin, and it doesn’t matter what I would feel because there’s only one thing to do. As long as she lives, she and her magic are a threat to Camelot and its people. She must be found and brought to justice for her crimes. Now, these are hardly matters which concern a servant, so I’d prefer you not to bring them up again.”

He’s right. It wasn’t something he would admit out loud; it didn’t seem in-character. But Morgana had had her last chance. For now though, he supposed it was best to turn the conversation to lighter things. 

“Your birth anniversary is coming up in a few weeks,” Merlin said. “Have you given a thought to entertainment?”

“Typical show. Jugglers, knife throwers and the like.”

Merlin hummed. If he couldn’t cheer the prince directly, the least he could do was misdirect with an easy target. “That’s something to look forward to. Wandering players always are very exciting.”

“To you maybe,” Arthur sniped. “You have the mind of a child.”

“And yet I’m still smarter than you,” Merlin returned. He threw Arthur an impish smirk.

“Get out.”

“Yet he doesn’t deny it,” Merlin mumbled just loud enough for Arthur to hear.

That did it. Arthur never could resist a bait like that. The prince shook off his gloom enough to reach for an empty mug. Merlin scampered out of range, snatching up the dulled sword laid out on the table as he went. “How’s that for appreciation? I hurry home to make sure things are running smoothly, and this is the thanks I get.”

He caught a smile flickering across Arthur’s face. “Just get that sword done and get back here, and for gods’ sake, don’t trip on the stairs. Last thing I need is to lose the help on top of everything else.”

Merlin exited the room, grumbling about being referred to as ‘the help’ until the door shut behind him. Even as he ambled off, a bit of the amused smile remained. A pit of warmth had settled in his chest. Just like old times, he thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sticking with it, folks. Next chapter shouldn't be too far behind.


	4. Urgent Summons

Lord Agravaine’s horse raced through the underbrush, pushed as fast as its rider dared. Clutched in the lord’s hand was a small note. It had been delivered to his window late the night before by a large crow. The words were hastily scrawled and the corner of the scrap of parchment was stained with blood. _Valley of the Fallen Kings. As soon as possible._

He hadn’t heard from Morgana since before Samhain. There was supposed to have been some kind of attack mounted by the two priestesses, but nothing had come of it. That, the silence, and now this note were solid proof that something was horribly wrong. So Agravaine made with all haste to answer the summons. 

When he reached the entrance to the valley, Agravaine pulled his horse to a halt. Morgana had given no instructions on how to find her or what to do. He assumed that she would find him. He waited for a moment, his horse shuffling nervously, before he heard a rasping voice calling his name.

“Morgana?” He dismounted, peering around. He couldn’t spot her.

“Agravaine.” The voice was louder this time, and now he could hear the way it trembled and cracked with pain.

“Morgana?!” He inched his way into the narrow ravine, glancing warily around. Finally his darting gaze landed on a trail of black cloth poking out from behind an outcrop. He jogged toward it before freezing, face paling in horror. “My lady Morgana! What happened?!” he cried.

“Never you mind! Just help me,” Morgana hissed weakly. She was sitting slouched against the rock wall at her back, cradling her right arm. The woman, normally so haughty and beautiful, looked bedraggled and exhausted. The sleeve of her black dress had been shredded, and through the rents he saw that her pale skin was painted with blood. 

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. What had Agravaine stunned were the dark, welt-like lines criss-crossing her exposed skin: coiled around her neck, wrapped around her injured arm, striping her face across one eye. He would almost have called them burn scars but for the unnatural discoloration and shape. 

“Don’t just stand there, you idiot!”

He jumped into action, reaching to pick her up and carry her. She shoved him back. “I will walk on my own.”

She barely managed it. She kept her arm tightly clutched to her chest and she favored one side, but between her stubbornness and the minimal assistance she allowed Agravaine to give her, they made it back to his horse and mounted it. There was a cave not far off where they would be hidden from bandits, and where Agravaine could better help Morgana with her wounds. 

Once they had reached it, he did his best to tend her arm, but it was worse than a first glance betrayed. Large, jagged splinters were lodged in some of the worst cuts almost to her shoulder, and smaller ones that peppered her skin were much harder to see. He did his best to help pick them out and bandage the arm—the extent of his healing skills— but he worried that there were more he had missed. Splinters in a wound could easily cause infection. However, there was nothing more he could do at the moment. When he finished tying off the bandage, Agravaine crouched on the ground, voice intense. “Who did this Morgana? What happened? Where is Morgause?”

Meeting her stabbing glare was like staring down a serpent, but he didn’t have to endure it long. Her gaze dropped and her frame trembled with sorrow and fear and rage. “Morgause is dead. Murdered before we could enact our plan against Camelot.”

Agravaine almost fell back on his behind. “Morgause murdered? How? By whom?”

“By the same man who did this to me!” Morgana cried, gesturing violently at her bandaged arm and scarred skin. “He said he would hunt me down, slaughter me like he did my sister. It was him, he laid a trap for me at the hovel!” Her voice grew more intense and panicked with every word. “How did he know? How did he know where I’d be? How did he even know that we would be on the Isle?!” 

“Morgana!” Agravaine almost shouted. “You must slow down and start from the beginning.” It was rare he got away with ordering this woman to do anything, but this seemed like one of those times. Gulping in breaths and clenching her jaw, Morgana nodded stiffly and began to tell him about her venture to the Isle, how she had found Morgause dead after leaving her alone for only a few minutes, and of the cloaked man that had been waiting for her. She stumbled over the telling when she reached their exchange of blows.

“The spell he used to banish me…” she choked out. “It was like many cold chains crushing me, burning me with frost. My ribs were already broken from when he’d thrown me. I thought I was going to die. They took me away and left me somewhere in Asgorath in the dead of night. I managed to crawl into some hole like a wretched beast, nurse myself back to health. It was weeks before I was able to make my way back.” Her left fist clenched. “Only to find a trap waiting for me even in my most pathetic dwelling. The door burst apart the moment I touched it. Had I been a second too late in shielding myself, I could have been pierced through the heart. My arm caught the worst.” She attempted to roll her right shoulder but flinched before she’d got it halfway around. 

Agravaine’s lips were pursed and his mind was racing. “This is very bad, Morgana. This Emrys, is there anything else you can tell of him? You saw no face, nothing that we could use?”

“I told you, his face was completely shadowed,” she said bitterly. “He wore no identifying marks or clothing. His sword was finely crafted but plain. And all he told me was his name, that Camelot was under his protection, and that he would kill me if I moved against it.”

Agravaine’s face crumpled into a frown. “I don’t understand. If he is as powerful a sorcerer as you believe, why would he side with Camelot?”

Morgana bared her teeth. “Whatever the reason, any magic user that would defend Uther and his reign is a traitor to our people. He must pay!” She attempted to sit up straighter, teeth grinding together with the effort.

“We must be cautious about this, Morgana,” Agravaine said, wanting to ease her back down but not quite daring. “We cannot rush into conflict with an enemy we know nothing about. I will return to Camelot and gather what information I can, and you must find a place where you will be safe.” He received a contemptuous snort in reply, but he had a feeling she would follow his advice in this matter. “I must return before I am missed, but I will be back soon with healing supplies,” he said.

“No!” Morgana’s face was drawn and ashen. “He could follow you back to me! I will manage on my own. Until I can be sure Emrys cannot track my location, you will not meet me again; we will communicate through my birds.” Through sheer will, she managed to haul herself to her feet. “Do what you can to find out who Emrys is, but do not take too long. I will not have this threat hanging over my head any longer than it has to,” she said, panting for breath.

Reluctantly, Agravaine nodded. “Very well. Take care of yourself, Morgana.”

On his way back to Camelot, Agravaine struggled to work out this newest complication. Things had been going so very well: Morgana had been growing in strength, the kingdom was weak with Uther out of commission, and he was in the perfect position to exert his influence over Arthur and his decisions. This Emrys, this mysterious figure who cloaked himself in shadow and wielded magic strong enough to strike down a High Priestess, was a very unwelcome and very unsettling interruption of all that. 

He had initially considered going to Arthur and telling him that a dangerous sorcerer was on the loose, but he had reconsidered. The man sounded like an elusive sort, not one to reveal his presence lightly. If a sudden manhunt sprang up, it wouldn’t be too difficult for a skilled sorcerer to find out who had made the report. It was a short leap from there to figure out Agravaine was working with Morgana. 

No, it was best to be subtle for now. If even Morgana couldn’t say how she had been tracked to the Isle of the Blessed, and had been defeated at that, Agravaine would have to move forward with the utmost caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments on the previous chapter :) It's definitely helping rekindle my passion for this fic series.


	5. Small Maneuvers

Arthur was consumed in busywork, as was typical these days. The fact that the usual papers on the royal accounts, tax reports, and statements brought back from patrols had been replaced by managing the particulars of his birthday tomorrow didn't make it any less tedious. He sorely missed the days when he was just the crown prince. He'd had his duties, but they were usually outdoors. Securing borders, hunting bandits, and training the knights were his specialties, not pushing a quill for hours on end. He glanced longingly at the windows behind him, feeling stifled. At least he would be getting out soon; he had practice with his knights.

A knock at the door was a godsend. It gave him an excuse to drop his work. "Enter," he called.

Agravaine stepped into the room, executing a shallow bow.

"What can I do for you, uncle?" Arthur asked, sitting back.

"Not just for me, my lord, but for the entire kingdom," Agravaine said as he stood before the desk. "One of our greatest concerns at the moment is the threat of Morgana, is it not?"

Arthur's throat closed for a moment. Aside from when he was directly addressing the problem, he preferred not to think about it. "It is."

Agravaine nodded, continuing in a grave voice. "Well, I have been considering the problem thoroughly, and I'm afraid to say the situation is fraught with more dangers that we initially assumed. It's not just Morgana we need worry about, but her ability to gain allies. I believe we must make preemptive moves to ensure this does not happen."

Arthur nodded, a seed of dread planted in his mind. Morgana, from what had been reported, was dangerous enough on her own. With allies on her side, she would be capable of taking Camelot. Again.

"Tell me what you had in mind, uncle."

* * *

Merlin crouched on the uneven floor, examining the wreckage of Morgana's hovel. It was strewn with rotting shards of the door, large chunks of plank and plenty of splinter dust. He picked up a bigger piece and flipped it over. He could just make out a portion of rune work carved into it.

So Morgana had definitely been here. He had crafted the rune so it would only go off in her presence. So the question was, where would she go from here?

Merlin was tempted to use his Mind's Eye to find her, but that was a shoddy plan for more than one reason. While it was an excellent spying tool in a majority of cases, a High Priestess of the Old Religion would definitely feel an Eye as powerful as his searching her out, and then she would be in the wind again. It was possible he could catch her even then, but he couldn't very well explain where he had disappeared to if he did commit to hunting her. Even now, he was pushing his luck. He needed get back before people became annoyed, suspicious, or worried. Perhaps all three. He rose to his feet and left the hovel.

Outside, Merlin's brown mare was waiting placidly, whinnying when he emerged. Merlin smiled, going up to rub the snowy white star on her forehead.

"Our little secret, right?" he murmured, ruffling her mane. The horse butted him in the chest and whiffled happily. Merlin had forgotten how much he used to love this gentle creature. He gave her one more affectionate pat before swinging up onto her back and turning toward home. It was a beautiful morning; cool, but clear and very sunny. When he was a few minutes out from Morgana's hut, he kicked his mare into a gallop. He had only been meant to go a short ways into the forest for Gaius's herbs. Even heading back at top speed, he would probably be facing some questions.

Trotting back into Camelot, the whole place was buzzing once again with a celebratory air. The prince's birthday was the following day, and even if the festivities were reserved for just the court, the common folk were no less enthused. Arthur had been well-liked by the people for some years already, but his popularity had only increased since he had taken over as regent. Even if he didn't have full authority, his actions and decisions showed his potential to be a kind and strong leader. In just a few short days, they would see that potential realized.

Merlin sprinted all the way back up the stairs to the physician's tower, fully expecting Gaius to be waiting with a stern word or two. Wasn't that an experience, Merlin thought, being his age and anticipating a lecture.

Voices stopped him just outside the door, Gaius…and Agravaine. Merlin narrowed his eyes, listening intently. He had his suspicions on why the false counselor was here.

"Prince Arthur has placed me in charge of matters concerning the safety of Camelot from magical threats, specifically the Lady Morgana at present," Agravaine said, voice respectful and reasonable to the point of almost being parody. Merlin honestly couldn't see how no one had managed to see through his falsity, but then again, no one in Camelot seemed to match Merlin in nosiness, and they didn't have years of pop culture exposure that told them how to easily pick out someone with villainous intentions. The man did where nothing but black, after all.

"I am aware, my lord." Gaius's tone was clearly asking Agravaine to get to the point.

"Our concern is that, since Morgana has a legitimate claim to the throne, other magic users will rally around her, support her cause in the hope that she will return magic to the kingdom. As you are the most knowledgeable in matters of magic and provided valuable assistance to King Uther in the past, I had wondered if you had any information on possible sorcerers at large, especially powerful ones. We must take every precaution."

Merlin's eyebrows rose. As he had thought. Agravaine hadn't said it in so many words, but Merlin had little doubt this inquiry was about Emrys. That meant that the lord had already met with Morgana, or had at least received word. Damn the timing of it all. Had Merlin gotten back a day earlier, he would have had her.

"I'm afraid I won't be much help in that regard," Gaius said. "I would have no association with sorcerers who are accepting of with Morgana's methods, and anyone else would either have fled or gone to ground some time ago."

"Of course, of course," simpered Agravaine. "I didn't mean to imply anything. However, it is the Prince's wish that you keep an ear out for any news, any at all, for the sake of the kingdom's security, and should you hear of any sorcerers in the area, you are to report it. Even more peaceable sorts could be risks, what with the unstable state of the royal family."

"I will do my best." The hesitance was barely there in Gaius's voice, but Merlin could hear it. The physician might not know what was going on exactly, but his suspicions had definitely been raised. This was probably the best time to retreat, before he was caught eavesdropping.

By the time Agravaine emerged, Merlin was running up the stairs again as if he'd only just arrived, even huffing and puffing for added effect. He almost knocked the lord over when he plowed into him.

"Watch where you're going, boy!" Agravaine snapped. "Before you break both of our necks on these stairs."

"Forgive me, my lord." Merlin bowed his head contritely, despite the fact that he would much prefer telekinetically shoving the man down the stairwell. "It's just there's a lot to do and I have to hurry."

"Well, be more careful next time." With a much-offended swoop of his black cape, Agravaine was off. Merlin watched him go, his lip curling in distaste. Paying even false respect to the man who would turn so readily on his king and kin turned his stomach. The last corner of the black cloak whipped out of sight. "Should change all his clothes pink," Merlin mumbled as he shouldered his way through the door.

Gaius was standing in the middle of the room, brow furrowed. It seemed to take him a minute to register that Merlin had returned. "Where have you been?" he asked sternly.

"In the forest," Merlin replied, dropping his herb satchel on the table. "What did Agravaine want?"

Gaius glanced sharply at him. "I'm not entirely sure." The physician walked over to stand beside his ward as he began to sort through the bushels. "I must confess," he said under his breath, even though the door was closed, "I don't trust the man. His counsel to Arthur is often questionable."

"I've noticed."

"And while I feel his actions are prudent concerning other sorcerers allying with Morgana, it almost seems too soon. I'm not sure, just…something isn't right."

Merlin wondered if he ought to just tell Gaius that Agravaine was in Morgana's pocket, but decided not to. Since Merlin had prevented the Dorocha incident, the events that would have grounded Gaius's mistrust, like the attempt on Guinevere's life, had not happened. Gaius might very well believe him, but he had no proof yet.

He was startled out of his thoughts when he received a light cuff to the back of the head. "And don't think I didn't notice you changing the subject," Gaius scolded. "It shouldn't have taken you that long to collect what I needed."

Merlin smiled a bit. Gaius was still as sharp as ever. "It's almost winter, Gaius. Do you know how deep into the bog I had to go to find a decent patch of comfrey?" He gestured to his clothes, which were spattered with dried mud and moss.

A raised eyebrow was an obvious enough indicator that Gaius wasn't buying it. Merlin chewed on his lip before admitting, "I was practicing warding the forest. Against Morgana."

Gaius didn't seem surprised, but the sternness began to morph into concern. "You must be careful, Merlin. Morgana must not be taken lightly. You're powerful, but you're not invulnerable."

Merlin nodded, his focus bent on the herb sorting.

"At least let me know when you're planning on running off on your own," Gaius said. His tone was completely dry, as befitting a father figure talking to their child that too often got into trouble, but the worry wasn't gone from his gaze. "I'd rather not have a repeat of last year."

"Gaius." Merlin looked up. He said, with absolute confidence, "You don't have to worry. I'll always come back. I promise."

Gaius gave him an indulgent half-smile and patted him on the shoulder, probably putting it down to a youthful sense of invincibility. That was fine. Only Merlin needed to know that it was a promise that wouldn't– _couldn't_ –be broken.

They spent the next hour sorting, cleaning, and drying the herbs. The mix of cloying fire smoke and the tang of fresh plants filled the room until Merlin could almost see the scents mixing with the sunbeams coming in. Merlin could hear Gaius's robes swishing when he moved. It was still so difficult to comprehend. He was really here. A cold pit at the center of his heart still feared going to sleep at night, dreading to wake and realize it was all a very long dream after all.

Across from him, Gaius popped the cork from a jar of preservative fluid, dropping a few flower buds into it. The sour smell hit Merlin in the nose. He almost dropped his paring knife when images flashed behind his eyes, laying a completely different scene over the peaceful, sunny one in the physician’s chambers.

_Crying. Gasping. A lot of coughing. It was a narrow, cramped room, lined wall to wall with cots and pallets. Every last one held a body, all reeking of illness. His hands were working, one swilling a solution much like Gaius had just been making. The other was flinging pus-encrusted bandages into a blazing hearth. A phlegm-choked wail of pain erupted from other side of the room._

Merlin blinked furiously, trying to shake off the memories. He shivered a bit, glad his mentor was occupied. Even to this day, the stench of the Black Death still lingered in his nose. 

Reaching across the table, Merlin grabbed at a clump of sage. The moment he began to cut it, the fresh scent drove away that glimpse of the past. Merlin’s shoulders slumped in relaxation, and his hands became deft once again as he sliced the stalks. As the unwelcome intrusion faded back into his subconscious, other memories drifted forward. These ones were quiet and warm, and when he blinked he welcomed the flashes he glimpsed. _There was a small flat with tiny windows, the whole room done up in warm-colored, elegant decor. A sweet, warbling voice was singing through a crackling radio. He stood at a minuscule kitchen counter, cutting sage just like he was at that moment, but it was destined for a simmering pot rather than the drying racks next to Gaius’ door. If Merlin concentrated hard enough, kept his eyes closed just long enough while tuning out the sounds of Gaius rummaging through the remedy stores, he could almost feel slim arms wrapping around his waist from behind, and a light, teasing voice sneaking into his ear. “C’est très attrayant, mon cher. J’aime un homme qui peut cuisiner.”_

"Merlin."

He made sure to look up calmly. It wasn't difficult. Flashes like that had become almost as common as breathing over the years.

“You might want to change now if you’re to get to the training session on time,” Gaius said. “I can manage from here.”

Merlin glanced down at his muddy clothes. “Oh. Right. Thanks.” He hurried up into his room and stripped down. As he pulled off the soiled tunic, his fingers caught on the rough skin on his chest: the burn he’d received courtesy of Nimueh. It was strange having it there; it had been erased a long time ago. All the other original scars were back as well, yet another reminder that this was real, that he was here. 

As Merlin emerged and headed for the exit, Gaius called out to him. “I want you to be extra careful.”

“Of what?” Merlin asked, looking both amused and confused.

“I’m not sure what Agravaine is up to, but it involves looking for powerful sorcerers,” warned Gaius. “Just don’t do anything foolish.”

Merlin gave a cocky smile. “Me?” Then he ducked out of the door before Gaius was finished rolling his eyes. 

It wasn’t pointless advice. Thinking of events going forward, the safest and most efficient way to get to Morgana at this point was to just lie low. Once Uther was struck down, she would attempt to interfere and ensure his death. Then he could probably follow Agravaine back to her. 

Merlin scowled to himself. There was no way it was going to be that simple. He might have fared well so far, but the butterfly effect was not an unfamiliar concept. Who could say which way the winds would turn? He couldn’t keep his sights on just one path; preparing for as many eventualities as possible was the only thing to do. 

One thing he needed, at least for now, was an ally. Agravaine was still his best lead, but even with his magic Merlin couldn’t be watching him at all hours. While Gaius was his typical confidant, his mentor was keen on having proof first. Merlin was also a little reluctant to involve Gaius for other reasons; he worried what the man’s discerning eyes would pick up if Merlin let him get too close.

Luckily, Merlin had another option. 

The fields were absolutely packed with knights when he got there, crossing swords, quarterstaffs, and battle axes under the pale autumn sun. It wasn’t just those assigned to training either, but men off-duty as well. Knights were typically restless sorts, probably trying to cram in as many hours outdoors before the snows set in. 

His group were in the usual place, near the far corner of the field beneath the southernmost tower of the citadel. They were all there: Leon and Elyan, Percival and Gwaine, with Arthur at the center. And Lancelot, alive and whole, laughing at something Gwaine had said. 

“Ah, Merlin,” Arthur said when he noticed his servant’s approach. “Decided to join us?”

“I was helping Gaius, as you perfectly well know,” Merlin returned, his levels of exasperation and indulgent patience more fit for scolding a child than addressing his monarch. “I still don’t know why I always have to be out here. You are all perfectly capable of picking up your own weapons.”

“But who else would hold the shield when we need to practice our sword strikes? You do it so well, Merlin, we couldn’t possibly have anyone replace you.”

Merlin’s mouth drew into a flat line as the knights snickered good-naturedly. “Right. How _could_ I have forgotten.”

Arthur, smug smirk out in full-force, clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll be doing bouts first, so I’d take this opportunity to stretch if I were you.” Then he walked into the center of the grassy fold, waving an arm at Elyan to follow him. 

Merlin waited until they began before shooting a glance toward the other knights. Leon seemed intent on the bout, and Gwaine and Percival were talking together. Lancelot was a little off to the side, practicing his footwork.

Perfect. 

Lancelot grinned as Merlin came up to lean against the short stone wall near him. “Haven’t seen much of you these past few days.”

“Been busy.” He checked around him again; no one else was near. This was his chance. “Listen…I need your help with something important, if you’re willing.” 

Immediately Lancelot grew serious. He also scanned around them. “What is it?”

Hidden by his crossed arms, Merlin’s fists tightened. After managing to prevent Lancelot’s death, he did not at all like the idea of putting him in anything resembling harm’s way, but the man was a knight and his only viable ally for what he had in mind. “I’ll understand if you can’t do this. It’s not exactly a knightly thing,” he admitted.

“Merlin,” Lancelot cut him off. “What is it?”

No one was in earshot, but Merlin leaned in all the same. “I need you to keep an eye on the Lord Agravaine for me,” he murmured. 

“Lord Agravaine?” Lancelot looked perplexed. “Why?”

Merlin chewed on his lip, pondering. Maybe he looked as if he were reluctant to say anything, but he was puzzling out the best way to word this. “Do you remember Samhain, when I told I thought something was up?” he finally said.

“Something happened?” the knight whispered harshly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Nothing happened, but there was a plan.” 

“But Lord Agravaine was involved?” 

Merlin inclined his head closer. “He’s working with Morgana.” 

The knight’s eyes widened, but to his credit gave no further reaction, not when they were in public. “What?!” he hissed. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t have any proof.” Other than experiencing that treachery for himself, which wasn’t exactly helpful. “But yes, I’m sure.”

“We have to tell Arthur.”

“No!” Merlin yelped, grabbing at Lancelot’s arm before the knight could actually move, making sure to look genuinely urgent. “I just said there’s no proof, and you know it’s not that easy. I’m a commoner, Agravaine’s a noble.”

Lancelot gave a fond sigh. “Merlin, you seem to forget I’m a knight now, and you are a trusted friend to Arthur.”

“Well, Agravaine’s his uncle. I don’t think he’d take any groundless accusations well,” said Merlin, releasing Lancelot’s arm. “What we need is real evidence. I just think we should watch him, and I can’t do it all the time on my own. We don’t need to constantly tail him, just know if he comes or goes from the citadel.”

“Lancelot!” Arthur hollered. “You’re up next with Percival.”

“Yes, sire!” Lancelot leaned back in, gaze intent. “I can’t say I like the idea of allowing a traitor to run around loose, but I trust your judgment. We’ll discuss it all later. Just stay close to Arthur and watch out for him.” Lancelot’s look became suddenly much more pointed. “And watch out for yourself.”

Merlin’s turned his attention out to the field, where Arthur and Elyan were shaking hands and sheathing their weapons. “Don’t worry about me. I’m plenty used to this.” 

Lancelot hummed under his breath. “I know. But all the same.” He gave Merlin a last pat on the back before he took up his sword and went to replace Arthur and Elyan, Percival at his heels. 

Merlin rubbed at the back of his neck. He wasn’t lying. Lancelot’s help would certainly make things easier, and if Agravaine was foolish enough to leave proof lying around, so much the better. Now Merlin could have someone else watching Agravaine’s movements, and with the stated goal being to gather evidence, Lancelot need not know that Merlin’s goal was higher on the food chain. 

To be honest, a part of him really didn’t think keeping Agravaine around was worth it. He was the best lead to Morgana, but the years had made Merlin a much better hunter. He knew how to track all kinds of prey. However, it was not Morgana that really held him back from dealing with Agravaine straight away, it was Arthur. He deserved to know the truth of his uncle’s treachery and, though Agravaine might have it coming, Arthur did not deserve to lose two more of his family members so close together.

The bout between Lancelot and Percival began, and Merlin’s focus zeroed in on them. He had a distasteful move to make, but it was thankfully minor. He just had to be very careful with his timing.

The strikes went back and forth, the blades clashing and sliding against each other with the screech of steel. Percival had the advantage in his strong blows, but Lancelot was far more nimble and graceful in his movements. It would have been difficult to pick his moment, if time had not been on his side. When all attention was focused on the fight, Merlin caught hold of time and slowed it to a crawl. The two combatants, briefly backed away from each other to adjust stance, were going in for another clash, moving as if in slow motion.

Merlin’s eyes took in every detail: their stances, the grips they had on their weapons, where they had shifted their weight. Lancelot was settling into a steady vertical block, while Percival had his sword raised for a powerful sweeping strike. 

That would do it. His power straining for minute precision, Merlin adjusted Percival’s aim just slightly, nudged him just barely off-balance. Then he released time.

Percival’s sword crashed against Lancelot’s, dangerously close to the hilt. Lancelot gasped, his weapon clattering out of his hand. 

“Halt!” Arthur shouted. Percival stepped back, eyes wide with concern and apology. “Are you all right, Lancelot?” the prince called.

“Yes, my lord.” The knight tried straightening his wrist and winced. “But my wrist hurts.”

Merlin pushed off the wall and jogged toward him. “Let me see.” He gently took the knight’s arm. “This will hurt some, so tell me to stop if you need to.” He rolled the joint and flexed the fingers, Lancelot twitching in pain but bearing it without complaint. _I’m sorry about this_ , Merlin said internally.

“I’d say it’s a sprain, not serious but not just a bruise either,” he said after a minute. “It just needs to be wrapped and then Gaius can give you something to help with the pain.”

“Thanks.” Lancelot said with a smile and another wince.

“I’m sorry, Lancelot.” Percival had been hovering, shame-faced at causing a fellow knight injury. “I don’t know how I could have been so sloppy.”

“There’s no need to apologize, these things happen all the time.” 

Arthur, who had drifted closer in his ever-present care for his men, excused Lancelot from training. “Can’t have you out of it at the feast tomorrow,” he said sympathetically. 

Merlin, generously excused from shield-holding duty, went with Lancelot. His guilt was much reduced now that he was assured he hadn’t caused any serious damage, but the slimy feeling was not completely gone. 

_Get used to it_ , he told himself. _It will only be that much worse tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind reviews :) They've definitely been both gratifying and uplifting in these crazy times.


	6. Necessary

Arthur lingered in the doorway of his father’s chambers. Neither Uther nor Gwen had noticed him yet. As he was most days, his father was slumped in the chair by the window as Gwen attended him. She was a much better sight; hair tied up in a charmingly messy bun and her pale blue dress swirling lightly around her as she moved. 

It was difficult some days, seeing his father like this. It went against everything he’d come to associate with the man: strength, authority, absolute order. Arthur wondered if he would have been strong enough to make regular visits without Gwen’s encouragement. She really was too good to him.

The serving girl finally spotted him lurking by the door. She gave him a gentle smile, one he knew was reserved for him, and wasn’t he a lucky man for it. She came to join him after straightening the blanket over Uther’s legs one more time.

“He’s better today,” she whispered, “much more present. I think talking to you will help a great deal.”

“Thank you, Gwen,” Arthur said quietly, skating a hand up and down her arm. He dared not do more than that here, not even with his father in his current state. Nevertheless, Gwen understood his intentions. For just a second she brushed a rough-worn hand that was still impossibly tender across his cheek before taking her leave. 

Uther actually looked up when Arthur seated himself across from the defeated king. “Good morning, father,” Arthur said respectfully. Cheerfulness never did anything, and was much harder to manage. “You look better today.”

Uther gave no reply.

Soldiering forward despite the bite of disappointment, Arthur said, “I’ve come to report the proceedings of the most recent counsel. I know you like to keep informed, make sure that the kingdom is running smoothly. We discussed the annual levy this morning. The counsel suggested we raise it, but I feel the people are already overburdened.”

He was unexpectedly cut off. “We should not talk of matters of court today.”

Arthur stared, eyes wide and hope flaring inside. “Father?” he asked.

“You think I would ever forget that today is the anniversary of your birth?” For the first time in weeks, Uther looked up at his son. 

A smile barely made it onto Arthur’s lips, the greater flood of joy hidden behind it. It was the most his father had said at one time in months.

"I take it there are plans for suitable celebrations this evening?” Uther asked as he attempted to sit up straighter. 

“A feast and, um…some entertainment.” Arthur didn’t quite know what to do with himself, caught between remaining proper and hugging his father. All he knew was that at this moment he felt happier than he had been in a while. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” he promised. If it could bring some of his old father back, he would tell him about it all day. 

“Nonsense.” Now Uther looked up, and some of that old fire was back, and a great deal of affection. Arthur’s smile grew unrestrained. That look that was a mix of pride, care, and even a little teasing was all he ever sought from the man, half the reason he strove to not just be a good prince, but an excellent one. It could be so rare that every earning of it felt like a gift on its own. “You think I would miss my son’s anniversary?” 

Arthur, releasing a breath of laughter, shook his head. “Well, of course not. I’ll see to it that some of your finer things are laid out for the feast. It’ll be good for the men too, to see you at the head table again.”

He kept talking, babbling about nothing as long as his father’s energy seemed to hold. Arthur doubted Uther was even taking in half of what was being said, but he seemed content to just have Arthur there. Even looking over to see that the older man had nodded off as Arthur was telling him about the Samhain feast could not dampen the prince’s spirits. He rose tentatively from his chair and crept from the room.

Upon exiting, Arthur caught voices chatting around the corner, and recognized them for Merlin and Gwen. His servant must have tracked him down to begin preparing for the celebrations. Normally Merlin’s gabbing leading up to events like these was something to be avoided, but with Uther talking again and his birthday to look forward to, things almost seemed back to normal. He was more than willing to accept the chatter if he could keep that going. 

* * *

The crowd of tumblers, fire breathers, and jugglers went about their business, unpacking their tools of trade and chattering excitedly about performing before royalty. They took no notice of a servant who appeared to just be watching with curiosity from the doorway. 

Merlin peered around at the merry madness, at the performers as they practiced their acts and at the house servants doing their best to set up decorations while ducking around the entertainment. 

It was the knife thrower, if he remembered correctly, that was involved in the assassination plot. He stared at the man’s back. His magic was snarling beneath his skin again, angered by even the idea that someone within Merlin’s line of sight meant Arthur harm. _Calm down_ , he internally hissed at himself. Like an unconscious warning, the back of his neck twinged sharply. 

He pushed off the doorframe and walked away. He had things to take care of anyway. For example, getting Arthur’s freshly laundered ceremonial cloak delivered to him. 

When he didn’t find the prince in his chambers he made instead down the corridor toward the king’s side of the royal wing. When he turned a corner, he spotted Gwen leaning up against the wall.

She jumped a bit when he crept up behind her, whispering a slight “boo” in her ear. He allowed a genuine grin when she turned on him, trying to look irate but failing. He had missed the easily-flustered friend he’d known; they had both become too serious in their later days together. His smile almost dropped as memories flashed past, like small flickers of lightning, but he managed to keep it up.

“Merlin,” Gwen scolded lightly. “I thought you had better manners.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He nodded toward the next hallway. “Is Arthur in there?”

“Yes, he’s in with his father. They’re talking.”

Merlin’s eyebrows rose with false surprise. “Oh. Wow. That’s good.”

Gwen nodded. She glanced back toward the king’s chambers, but not before Merlin caught the tender expression on her face. “I’m so glad for Arthur. He’s been needing this,” she said softly.

Merlin huffed a faint laugh, shaking his head. “You still amaze me, Gwen.”

She turned to him again, an expression of both amusement and confusion lighting her lovely face. “Not that I’m not flattered, but wherever is this coming from?” 

“It’s coming from nowhere, I’ve always found you amazing,” he said, laughing a little louder at her faint blush. The woman was all modesty — and maybe some lingering embarrassment about that crush she’d had on him at the beginning. “I just could never understand your kindness,” he admitted. “Uther’s been cruel to you in the past. How can you care for him like this?”

Gwen glanced down, her fingers threading together in thought. “I don’t do it for the king’s sake, I do it for Arthur’s. No matter what Uther’s done in the past, I know what it’s like to lose a father. I love Arthur, and I don’t want to have him suffer that.”

Merlin maintained his smile, but internally he felt a harsh bite of shame. It remained unseen, though, and he swept the serving girl a theatrical bow. “Truly you are the best of us. Can’t say that if I was in your position, I wouldn’t have pushed his chair over once or twice.”

She gasped and swatted his arm. “Merlin! What if someone heard you?”

“Arthur would throw me in the stocks for a few days?”

“I think that would be the least of your worries,” she warned.

Merlin gave a nod of agreement. “Maybe, but that’s why I’m friends with the knights, in case I ever need a rescue. Why else do you think I help Gwaine and Percival pinch food from the kitchens?”

“So that’s how they’ve been doing it.” Arthur had unexpectedly joined the conversation, turning the corner and sauntering up to them. “Very sneaky of you, Merlin. Perhaps I should report this to the kitchen matron?”

Putting on a look of worry, Merlin shook his head rapidly. “I’m sure that’s not necessary, Arthur. Not very fitting of a prince to be tattling, and anyway I have your cloak. We should probably see to that before anything else, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, stop rambling, Merlin.”

Gwen glanced between the two of them, poorly concealing a giggle behind a ladylike cough. “Does he need anything else, Arthur?” 

“As a matter of fact,” Arthur said, his pointed look dissolving into happiness, “the king will be attending the feast. If you would bring some fitting clothes for him, that would be perfect.”

“Of course.” Gwen curtsied, adhering to propriety in order to hide how pleased she looked as she left. Merlin wasn’t fooled; she was overjoyed to see Arthur so uplifted. Merlin was more grateful than ever for her steadfast loyalty and care, because it would be sorely needed. 

Arthur thumped him on the back, pushing him down the hallway in the opposite direction. “Come on, might as well get ready and get it over with.”

“Now you’re just complaining for the sake of it,” Merlin said flatly as they walked.

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe. It’s relaxing. But…I’m glad my father will be there. He hasn’t been this aware in months.” He turned to Merlin. His face was open and questioning, vulnerable in a way the prince had only ever been with Merlin and perhaps Gwen. Sometimes Merlin wondered if even Arthur knew how much he let his guard down. “Do you think this means he’s getting better? It’s certainly a good sign, right?”

Merlin shook his head. “I couldn’t say. You never really know with that kind of trauma.”

Arthur pursed his lips, his brows furrowing. “He’s always been strong. He’ll get over it,” he said assuredly. 

Merlin’s fingers trembled just a bit. He shoved them into his jacket pockets. The knuckles of his left hand scraped painfully along the runestone, which he had finished early that morning. “Let’s hope,” he said quietly.

“Do stop dragging your feet, Merlin. Not very seemly for the Crown Prince to be late to his own party.”

* * *

The guests in the grand dining hall thundered applause as an acrobat flipped through the air, propelled from the shoulders of his fellow. The floor was a mass of bright colors and movement, and both knights and nobles were loving it. Arthur clapped loudly as one man shot a gout of fire from his mouth. Despite all of his complaining to Merlin, he was quite enjoying himself. Maybe that was because for the first time in months, his father was at his side, a little grayer of hair and lined of face, but looking just as excited as everyone else in the room.

The prince felt a tap on his shoulder and then Uther was leaning in towards his ear. “I remember when you were just a lad, the first time you were old enough to attend your birthday feast. You were so entranced with the performers your mouth was hanging open the entire night. I kept telling you it wasn’t befitting a prince, but it didn’t help. It was quite amusing,” he chuckled.

Arthur grinned. His father hardly ever told stories like that. In fact, he could probably count the times Uther had been sentimental on one hand, if he excluded the whole troll incident. 

Maybe losing Morgana had triggered the nostalgia. Arthur’s jaw clenched and he gave his head a slight shake. No, he wouldn’t dwell on that tonight. He already spent enough of his nights wondering what had gone wrong, what had propelled his friend and half-sister down the path of magic and evil. Tonight his father was aware, his people were happy, and there was something to celebrate. He forcefully turned his attention back to the performers. A juggler had just completed an act that Arthur had totally missed, but he applauded vigorously anyway.

Damn all his worries, just for tonight. 

The crowd of entertainers suddenly stopped all activities and parted, leaving the floor clear for their knife-thrower and leader. “I require a volunteer,” the man cried with perfect theatricality. His narrow eyes fixed on Arthur, the challenge in them as obvious as if he’d shouted it. “Prince Arthur, what better or more fitting occasion for you to demonstrate your legendary bravery?” he questioned, practically sneering it. “Do you accept the challenge?”

If he was being perfectly honest, Arthur wasn’t keen on the idea of spinning on a wheel after the few goblets of wine he’d had, much less doing it while having knives thrown at him. However, there was no way he was going to let a puffed-up gleeman back the prince of Camelot down from a challenge. And when he looked sideways at Uther, he saw his father smiling widely with genuine excitement.

Standing up, he spread his arms in a show of absolute nonchalance. After all, he was damning all worries tonight. Why should this be an exception?

He accepted the challenge. 

* * *

Arthur was already flagging. What Merlin had put down to tipsiness the first time was clearly a sedative taking hold. As he followed the stumbling prince into his chambers and watched him bounce off a pillar, he was almost compelled to not allow Arthur out of his room. He would be utterly defenseless like this, and letting him go anywhere near danger in that state defied every last one of his instincts. Almost compelled were the key words, though. Arthur had gone through this night unscathed once before, so there was no reason that would not be the case a second time.

“It was good to see my father enjoying himself,” Arthur said blearily, slumping against the bed. “He looked a little quiet towards the end there.” The prince’s face scrunched in thought before he popped up to his feet again. “Perhaps I should go see him.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin asked. He was playing his part to script now. “You’re not exactly steady on your feet.”

“Are you saying I’m drunk?”

Merlin leaned up against the pillar, crossing his arms. “No, just that maybe it’s not the best idea to be wandering around the palace.”

Arthur swayed toward the door, addled mind already made up. “And why is that?”

Merlin smirked to himself, shaking his head slightly. “Because you’re not wearing any trousers.”

A beat of silence went by, before Arthur replied with a sulky “Good point.” Merlin looked over his shoulder just in time to catch the prince yanking up said trousers and stumbling out the door. 

A wave of sudden affection, sadness, and something close to nausea rolled over the warlock. Like everything else, it was so easy to focus so completely on the job at hand that he would forget that he was really talking to Arthur again, not reliving memories. Sometimes he thought his mind had exaggerated his friend’s qualities—good, bad, and ridiculous—for remembrance’s sake, but here they were in all their strange honesty: his pigheadedness, his sometimes childish attitude, the endless care he held for everyone he loved, his determination to be a good ruler to all his people, his fear of failure and losing what meant most to him.

Merlin swallowed. One didn’t go through a life as long as his without making difficult decisions, ones that made him feel like an utter bastard. He’d had his share, but they never got easier, especially when it involved a friend. It was rare, though, that he ever found those decisions unnecessary in hindsight. Regrettable, but not unnecessary.

What he allowed to happen tonight, no matter its benefits, felt like a betrayal, but it was a betrayal he could live with. 

_I’m sorry, old friend._

* * *

Arthur had been on the edge of blissful sleep, slumped in a chair across from his dozing father when he caught the reflection in the silver pitcher. He only had to register the raised sword before he was leaping to his feet, hand grabbing for his father’s ceremonial blade laid out on the table. “Guards!” he cried weakly, holding his weapon up in defense. 

Only his mind couldn’t shake the bleariness. His ears felt stuffed with down and even as his attacker came at him again, his eyelids were still trying to close, to drag him into sleep.

“Guards!” he yelled more desperately. The attacker swung at him again, and it felt like his arms were made of lead as he clumsily blocked the blow. Why couldn’t he wake up?

He lasted only a few seconds before his unsteadiness and an especially strong strike sent him sprawling to the floor. Even as his head spun and the room rocked around him, Arthur knew that his opponent was looming over him. What was happening? What had gone wrong? _Someone help me._

“Goodbye, Arthur Pendragon,” a familiar, sneering voice said. He turned his head just enough to see his attacker, which he finally registered as the knife thrower, raising his sword for a killing blow. The room was still tilting, and there was nothing Arthur could do.

But then his father was there, the sword Arthur had dropped deflecting the strike that would have ended Arthur’s life. “It will take more than a coward like you to kill my son,” the king snarled. Then Uther attacked.

Arthur wanted nothing more than to leap up and fight beside his father, protect him, because Uther had been practically bedridden for almost a year and was nowhere close to his former fighting prowess, but no matter how hard he tried, Arthur could not fight past the weight in his limbs and the fog in his head. The clanging of metal against metal faded in and out. 

_Damn it, come on!_ With all the strength he had, he heaved upward onto hands and knees, almost toppling headfirst into the bed frame. Footsteps were coming closer. “Have you anything to say to your son before I kill him?” the assassin asked. Arthur raised his head just in time to see his father rescue him again, shoving the knife thrower away before knocking him to the ground. Uther raised his sword to strike, the clear victor.

But before Arthur could let a childish feeling of relief and safety overwhelm him, Uther plunged the sword downward. The assassin plunged a dagger upward.

Arthur stared helplessly from the floor. The assassin went limp. His father stumbled back.

“Father?”

Uther began to fall. Mustering up everything he had, Arthur scrambled forward on hands and knees, reaching up to catch his father before he could collide with the hard floor. Fear, like an icy hand clenching around his insides, flooded through the prince when his eyes found the steadily widening patch of blood blooming on his father’s nightshirt. 

No. Why was this happening? His mind still couldn’t process; all he knew was that things had been better today. So why had this happened? It wasn’t supposed to happen. “No,” he choked out. “Guards.” His voice was traitorously weak. There was no way they would hear him. Why hadn’t they come? “I’ll go get help,” Arthur muttered, desperation overriding logic. He could barely stand up in this state.

“Stay with me.” Uther’s voice was hushed and unafraid.

“I’m here, father.” That calmness eluded Arthur, and he let out the loudest yell he could manage. “Guards!” 

Nothing. No one. No one coming.

“Someone,” he almost whimpered. “We need help.”

Uther’s unsteady breaths drew his attention. “It’s my time,” he whispered, still without fear.

Arthur shook his head. “No. You can’t die.” He cradled his father closer, as if proximity would deny death its due. 

“I know you will make me proud, as you always have.” The king’s breaths were becoming shallower. “You will be a great king,” he said, as his green eyes met Arthur’s blue ones.

“I’m not ready,” Arthur pleaded. 

“You—You have been ready for some time, Arthur.”

“No,” he denied again, stubbornly, because it didn’t matter really if he was ready or not. He didn’t want to let go. He wouldn’t. “I need you.”

But Uther did not seem to hear. “I know I’ve not been a good father,” he said distantly. “I put my duty to Camelot first. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But know this, Arthur. I’ve always loved you.”

Whatever Arthur might have said, if he’d had the words, was denied as sobs strangled him. The king’s eyes flickered closed, and Arthur held his father close. His father had once told him that no man was worth his tears, but Arthur was confused, alone, and grief was much stronger than him. So he let the tears fall. 

* * *

Merlin backed away from the king’s antechamber door. His throat was completely dry, and it felt like his beating heart had been replaced with a stone. He quietly fled, making his way back toward Arthur’s chambers. 

_“Someone. We need help.”_

He had wanted to. So much. God, he hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to just let it happen, to watch from the door in case he needed to perform a last minute rescue. That was only in the event that Arthur was mortally threatened. Being hurt in any other sense was out of Merlin’s hands. He still wished Arthur could have been spared that pain. Unfortunately, what was wanted and what was needed could be very different things. Arthur would survive, and he would be a great king. Even if magic wouldn’t yet be legal, Merlin’s people and the innocently accused would be free from Uther’s tyrannical fear of it. Arthur would be free to be with Gwen. Camelot would flourish. In the end, it would be worth it.

Merlin shut the door firmly behind him. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. He put a hand into his pocket and pulled out the runestone. A small comfort, perhaps, but a valuable one. Even if Arthur would have to suffer through the loss in his waking hours, the stone would ensure that the sleeping ones would be free of nightmares or grief.

_“Ic i álænan mín afol æt hrincg. Ácweðan niht gesihðnessa, fæðman slúma,”_ he whispered. The etchings on the stone glowed pale blue for a moment before fading back to normalcy. With another murmured word, the stone floated up from his palm to place itself atop the canopy of Arthur’s bed, likely to never be found. Then Merlin leaned up against the wall, and waited.

It wasn’t a long wait. Hardly five minutes later, the alarms bells began to ring clear and harsh through every hallway of the citadel. Merlin straightened, prepared himself, and went to his master. 


	7. Desperate Plans

The citadel was unnaturally quiet. The news had spread like an airborne illness, and already all the staff, knights, and nobility crept about with cautious solemnity. The king had been attacked and was gravely injured. The whole castle knew by now, and no one dared disturb the miasma of fear and uncertainty, as if by breaking it they would tip the scales and send everything into ruin.

Merlin assembled the prince’s breakfast on a tray in the almost silent kitchen. The cooks, servants, and washerwomen swept about like shades, not daring to exchange their gossip in anything louder than a whisper. He could feel eyes on the back of his neck. As the prince’s manservant, he was the most likely of them all to know the truth of the matter, but no one dared approach.

All for the better. Merlin was tired and in no mood to batter back morbid curiosities. The night had been spent either keeping Arthur company or helping Gaius tend the king. Fruitless endeavors in both cases. Uther’s life was slipping away; he had a week at most. As for Arthur, Merlin was well aware that no words of comfort would reach him. So he’d kept silent in company with the prince, and had held it even after the sun rose. He wasn’t keen to have it broken by nosy inquiries.

He finished the tray and left undisturbed.

He didn’t make it through the hallway though. Lancelot was waiting for him outside.

“How’s Arthur?” The knight asked first.

Merlin raised and dropped a shoulder glumly. “As well as can be expected. You’re not with the others?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Agravaine dispatched the Round Table to track down who hired the assassin, but it seems I’m not fit enough.” He raised his still bandaged right arm.

“Oh.”

“Merlin,” Lancelot dropped his voice, checking the empty corridor. “Was this Agravaine’s doing? Did Morgana plan this?”

“I couldn’t say. I doubt it, though. It’s not her style.”

“Her style?”

“Morgana isn’t much for assassins. When she wants revenge, she prefers doing the dirty work herself.”

Lancelot scrubbed his hands through his hair, looking very weary. “I feel so useless. The king lies dying and Arthur could very well have ended up the same. I can’t even track down the one responsible with this damned wrist.”

Merlin’s gaze grew hard. “Don’t go blaming yourself. None of you could have prevented what happened. You didn’t know.”

“I know,” Lancelot said, dropping his arms limply to his side. “But it doesn’t stop me feeling that I’ve failed in my duties.”

Merlin’s posture slumped. _God damn it, Lancelot_. He set the tray aside on a window ledge.

“Listen to me. You’re not a failure, and only a fool would accuse you of being one. It was a well-crafted plan: Arthur himself approved their entry, the royal wing was well-guarded, none of the knights were even close to the royal chambers. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

Lancelot sighed. The sorrow had not left, but Merlin knew he was practical man. “You’re right. What’s done is done, and I can’t wallow in self-pity. Not when there’s still danger out there.”

“Right,” said Merlin. “Even if it wasn’t her, Morgana’s not likely to keep hiding once she hears the king has been…”

“Yes. I suppose I can thank this injury for something,” Lancelot said drolly. “It gives me more time to shadow the lord Agravaine uninterrupted.”

Merlin nodded, staying silent. So that move had paid off. He shot a glance toward the waiting breakfast tray, the royal proffer steadily going cold. “I should get back to Arthur. Be careful.”

“You as well.”

Merlin didn’t even bother checking Arthur’s rooms. The prince was in his father’s chambers, hunched in a chair at the dying man’s bedside. Gaius had already given him the verdict, that the king was not long for this world, but still Arthur’s eyes flickered over Uther’s paling form, sharp and searching as if a solution could be found as long as he looked hard enough.

Merlin set the tray down on the table. He had no comforting words to give Arthur. In some cases, he found it better to be silent. Some preferred solitary grief to empty platitudes. He couldn’t allow Arthur to deny basic needs though. “You should eat something,” he said in the same hushed tone that had muffled the entire citadel.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’d be surprised if you were. You still have to eat. Starving yourself won’t do anything.”

Arthur said nothing. Staring at him in profile, it dawned on Merlin that with Lancelot still being alive, this was Arthur’s first hard-hitting death. Yes, the prince had always mourned the absence of a mother in his life, but he had not been old enough to suffer bereavement, to hold someone dear and then watch them go, never to return. Seeing it that way suddenly made Arthur seem so very young, and Merlin felt his own age stacking upon his shoulders.

Jaw clenched, Merlin picked up the bowl of sweetened porridge and crossed over to Arthur. He crouched, making sure Arthur couldn’t ignore him unless he fully turned away. “Eat.” The command was soft, but a command all the same. He held the bowl out. “Hunger makes nothing easier, and he would want you to keep your strength up.”

Arthur graced him with the barest of quizzical looks, but he took the bowl. Merlin stared him down expectantly until the prince had forced down a few spoonfuls. “When did you become so bossy?” Arthur mumbled.

Merlin only snorted faintly, straightening up and crossing to the table. He snagged a chair and brought it back, placing it down next to Arthur’s but not too close. Then they sat together, Arthur in mourning and Merlin in hidden remorse.

“He’s lying there because of me,” Arthur eventually whispered. “This happened because he saved me.”

“You were his son. He loved you and was willing to give his life for you, as a parent should.” Even among Uther’s many cruelties and hypocrisies, that love had been genuine and Merlin could not begrudge the dying king that.

“Stop talking like he’s already gone.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but there’s nothing Gaius can do. He doesn’t have long.”

Arthur slouched, his hands clasped together almost as if in prayer. “I won’t give him up. Not yet.”

Arthur could believe that, keep telling himself there was hope. But even a prince, soon to be a king, could not bend death to his will, and the one man that could had no intention of altering its course.

* * *

In his dimly lit chambers, Agravaine both celebrated and chafed.

Uther was dying. The unworthy king that had led his sister Ygraine to her doom was dying, and when that happened, Arthur would be crushed and Camelot would be vulnerable. Morgana would be perfectly poised to take her place as rightful queen once more.

Being unable to ride out immediately and deliver this joyous news was putting a significant damper on his excitement, though. He dared not defy her orders, for fear of both her wrath and the possibility of leading their unseen adversary back to her, but oh, how he longed to see her, to please her and see that dark, beautiful fire in her eyes when he gave her good news. But here he was, trapped in the citadel, pacing his chambers as he waited on the messenger crow that only ever came to his window at night. Thrice damn Emrys to a fiery hell, whoever he was.

Agravaine paused in his circuit of the room. The thought of the unknown sorcerer had made something occur to him. A creeping smile made its way onto his face, and he hurried to his desk. The sun would be going down soon; it should be about time for him to compose his report to his mistress. As his quill scratched along the parchment, Agravaine’s pleased mood increased, beginning to wipe out his frustrations. After all, nothing was more satisfying than killing two birds with one stone.

By the time it had gone dark and he heard the scratching of talons on his windowsill, Agravaine was ready with his message, and a plan already forming in his head.

Emrys had proclaimed himself the defender of Camelot, had he not? Would that not extend also to the king? The sorcerer might even be near at that very moment. If Agravaine could find a way to lure him out, it wouldn’t only be Uther’s demise they would be celebrating. He just needed the right opportunity.

He tied his message to the crow’s leg and sent it off with a smile on his face.

* * *

Another day came and went in Camelot, still trapped in quiet. Arthur found it unbearable, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t just pretend things were normal, nor force anyone else to do so, but he felt like he was being smothered by the citadel’s silent rooms and his silently respectful knights. Even Merlin’s quips had stopped.

He spent the second day after his father’s wounding much like the last, cycling between the king’s rooms and the council chamber. Even if Uther’s life hung by a thread, the prince was still required to tend his kingdom. In the afternoon, Leon, Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine made their return. The assassin had been tracked all the way to Wenham, a town in Odin’s land. _Will the man never leave me be? His son brought his death upon himself, I didn’t want to kill him_. They were useless thoughts. Even if Arthur were to stand before Odin and proclaim them aloud, he was sure the man would still be out for his blood. He felt so utterly helpless. Gaius couldn’t save the king, and he couldn’t even seek the solace of vengeance, or else bring war on the kingdom. He was used to battering back all his problems with a sword, but when something came along that he couldn’t take on with weapons, he didn’t know what to do. All he could do was wait as Uther’s breath grew more labored and the daylight slipped away.

At least at first. As time slipped out of his fingers, taking his hope with it, a dark idea had seeded itself in his mind and heart. The first time it had popped into his head he had tried his best to banish it. He wasn’t a moron, he knew better. But with Gaius unable to do anything, and that rising tide of despair threatening to crash over him, Arthur couldn’t help but think… Maybe there was a way to save his father. An illegal, dangerous way.

“My lord?”

Arthur was drawn out of his thoughts by Sir Leon. He’d lost track of himself again. The members of the small council were staring at him uncomfortably.

Lord Dormand, one of his father’s old guard, cleared his throat delicately. “My lord, I know it is a difficult time, but it is best that we are prepared.”

“Pardon?”

“For the king’s last rites…and your succession of the throne.”

Arthur’s hands folded together, knuckles locking tight to prevent any trembling. “The king is not dead yet,” he said coolly.

“Perhaps not, but…Gaius has said, he does not have much time left.” Lord Dormand spoke cautiously as if he expected Arthur to start throwing things with the wrong word. “No matter how much we might wish for better news, we cannot deny the reality.”

“I’m not denying reality!” Arthur snapped, louder and harsher than he’d meant to. “I just haven’t given up yet.” That treacherous plan was niggling at the back of his mind again. He inhaled sharply through his nose and stood from his corner seat. The ornate chair at the head of the table remained empty. “Make whatever plans you feel are necessary,” he said, still cold and authoritative. “I trust you are all well-qualified for the task. The council is dismissed.” He didn’t even wait for the lords to rise before he was shoving his way out of the back door of the council chamber.

As soon as the door closed behind him he was swamped by embarrassment and anger. The trip back to his chambers soured his mood even further. He would turn down hallways to see servants whispering away, only to become mute when they caught sight of him. He passed several knights and guardsmen who would lock eyes with him for a moment before looking quickly elsewhere, never quite fast enough to hide their pity.

It was night again. The days were naturally getting shorter, but Arthur felt as though the dark hours were interminable compared to the light ones. The two days since his birthday felt more like two years. His steps quickened. If he allowed himself to slow down, he would be caught in that same slow deadness, same resignedness that had befallen the whole city. By the time he got to the stairs he was sprinting, and didn’t slow down until he was within sight of his own door.

He wasn’t surprised to find Merlin in his room, though he’d hoped to be alone. His manservant had placed himself at the near window, peering into the courtyard below. “What’s going on?” Arthur asked as he approached.

“It’s a vigil for your father,” Merlin said solemnly, a mood Arthur had never thought suited the young man. “The people wish to share their grief.”

Through the smudged window panes, Arthur could see the gathered residents of Camelot standing like sentinels, their faces lit with the warm glow of hundreds of candles. That sudden irrational anger that had come on during the council session rose up again. He kept a better rein on it this time. “Why are they behaving like he’s already dead when there is still life in his body?”

“They’re preparing themselves for the worst,” Merlin explained. The servant’s blue eyes glanced toward Arthur. “They’re showing their devotion. You shouldn’t be angry at them. This is the only thing they can offer as support.” The statement almost sounded stern. Arthur turned his head away, frowning a bit. Merlin had been rather high-handed the last few days, but he supposed he should be grateful. He was right about the people, and Arthur doubted he would have touched any food at all without Merlin being so pushy. He looked out again at the lake of lights, as his subjects already mourned their king.

“I’m not giving up,” he said. When he’d said it yesterday he had been convicted. Now his voice sounded rough. Seeing the lights, thinking of the words _Nothing to be done_ drew that terrible notion to the forefront of his mind. It was traitorous, dangerous, it went against everything his father stood for, but if he didn’t try then it really would be over.

Merlin nodded infinitesimally. “I know. I know you won’t,” he murmured.

Arthur’s mouth worked, unable to form the treasonous words but knowing he had to. If he couldn’t say them now, just between himself and Merlin, he would never work up the courage he needed. He focused on the lights and the hope of snuffing them out. “There is a way to save my father.”

Silence for a moment. “How?”

“…With magic.”

He knew Merlin had turned to stare at him, but he didn’t look back himself. He didn’t care to see whatever expression had come over Merlin: shock, anger, fear, maybe incredulity at such foolishness.

Arthur didn’t expect a tired sigh. “I’m truly sorry, Arthur. I know all this is hard to accept, but I don’t think this plan is wise.”

“I know it’s madness,” Arthur said. “But what kind of son would I be if I didn’t do everything in my power to save him? It’s dangerous, but…”

“I wasn’t talking about the danger,” Merlin cut him off. “You need a sorcerer to heal Uther. Do you really think any would come forward?”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut. That idea had never even occurred. “I can offer a reward,” he protested. “A pardon.”

“I doubt many would trust it.”

Arthur bristled. “So you’re saying my word means nothing?” he snapped.

“I’m not saying anything.” He was quickly starting to hate Merlin’s damnable calmness. “I know you and I know you would keep your word, but someone who doesn’t probably wouldn’t take that risk. For twenty years your father has hunted magic; why should they expect you to be any different?”

“Then we’ll find an artifact! There must be something in the vaults. Gaius used magic once, he can heal my father.” He drew closer to Merlin. “I said I wasn’t giving up, and I don’t mean to. You might think it’s hopeless, but I won’t know until I try,” he swore, voice gone cold.

Merlin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, before he dipped his head. “Then go ahead. Just don’t pin all your hopes on this chance, Arthur.”

“I won’t,” growled Arthur, turning away from the window and his servant. “You’re dismissed for the night, Merlin.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“I can manage.” Arthur waved him off. “Just…go home.”

“…All right. Try to get some sleep.”

Arthur offered no words in return as he heard Merlin cross the room and exit. He stalked toward his bed, not even bothering to change out of his day clothes. He collapsed onto the mattress.

It was stupid of him to resent people for the way they were acting. His council, his subjects, Merlin, they were only being realistic, rational even. Meanwhile Arthur was planning to turn to sorcery for a cure when he’d seen the evils magic brought with it. He just couldn’t bear to stand aside when there might still be a chance left.

He closed his eyes as they started to burn. He’d already cried once, and that was too much. What he needed was to plan. He would consult with Gaius and Agravaine on anything they might know, and he would have the vault records checked for any artifacts of healing. Somehow, he would find a way to fix this.

Arthur didn’t even notice when he finally drifted off. He slept deeply and had no dreams.

* * *

Morgana dreamed that she was surrounded by fire.

Not raging red fire, but pale blue and eerie. A shadow moved before it.

She was lying on the ground on her side, hurting, face pressed into the grass. Her hands were curled into her stomach, the skin cracked, burned, and oozing. “Morgause,” she tried to gasp, but she had no strength.

The wandering shadow loomed above her, and it spoke in a voice she knew. Deep and rumbling, like thunder trapped in a well, but not vicious. It almost sounded mournful, its words fading in and out as her strength ebbed and waned.

“I’m truly sorry, Morgana. I blame myself for what you’ve become.”

“E-Emry-ys,” she hissed.

“Now we’ll both face judgment for what we’ve done.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” she gasped out.

“Because it’s not my place. It’s his.”

The shadow vanished, and where it had been there was now a golden man standing over her, with a golden sword and tears in his eyes.

“Goodbye, Morgana,” Arthur choked out. He raised the magnificent blade above his head, the reflected flames in the steel seeming to set it alight. Then it swung down in a blazing arc.

Morgana’s eyes shot open, a strangled scream dying in her throat. She sat bolt upright in a cold sweat, causing a lingering twinge to shoot through her ribs and her injured arm.

There was no fire, and all the shadows were dead ones. The hideout she’d been sheltering in for the past week or so was damp and dilapidated. It could have been mistaken for a cave if not for a shattered pillar and the smooth stone floor. Maybe an old tomb or temple lost to time. It didn’t much matter. It was squalid and dark, an insult to the rightful queen of Camelot, and the symbols of concealment and protection from any scrying or scanning eye scratched in charcoal on the walls spoke of her bitter shame.

_ “Bæl on bryne.” _ A sputtering tongue of flame leapt up in a cracked brazier set on the floor. Morgana wrapped herself more tightly in the folds of her dress. That dark voice and the shining sword were still haunting the edges of her mind.

As if seeking for comfort, her hand fumbled into her dress pocket and retrieved the note she’d received from Agravaine. She read it for maybe the tenth time.

_ My Lady, _

_ I have most excellent news. On the night of Arthur’s birthday, an assassin infiltrated Camelot and Uther was mortally wounded. According to Gaius, he hasn’t much time left to live. Arthur is distraught. When the king dies, I have no doubt Camelot will be vulnerable. _

_ As for your enemy Emrys, I believe that we could turn this situation even more to our advantage. If he is a protector of this land, I imagine he should also defend the royal family. Perhaps he will be more willing to show himself. I will keep open every eye and ear I have available to me. I assure you, in time, we will be able to destroy him. _

_ I wish ever for your health, and await your orders. _

Morgana crushed the note in her fist. Just this morning she had been celebrating the news, scheming on how best to make her next move. However, following her vision that eagerness was all gone. She had foreseen her own death, and Emrys somehow played a part in it.

She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t play the cautious coward’s game that Agravaine so loved and wait for her adversary to find her. Morgana jumped up from her meager bedding and paced her hideout.

_ I need to flush him out. I need to get rid of him, before the vision comes true. But how to do it? _ For certain she couldn’t do anything near Arthur. They had both played a part, so if Arthur wasn’t around, the vision couldn’t come true.

_ I won’t let you hover over me, Emrys,  _ she vowed internally _. You caught me off guard before, but I am no simple hedge witch. Go ahead and cling to your shadows. I will send hunters to drag you out. I swear I’ll make you pay, for Morgause and for every indignity you’ve caused me. _

Her hands, still striped with the dark scars of Emrys’ spell, clenched.


	8. King Once More

Arthur was true to his word. He had no intention of letting his last and best chance slip away. The morning after he had told Merlin his plans, he had gone straight to Agravaine to confess his intentions. Agravaine had protested…at first. Merlin had clocked the eagerness in his eyes the moment Arthur admitted what he planned to do.

“My lord! You can’t possibly use magic, it’s too dangerous!” Agravaine had exclaimed loudly. Merlin, who had been staying unobtrusive in the corner, had narrowed his eyes into a glare. No one had been watching.

Arthur held up a placating hand. “I’m aware of the risks, uncle, and I can understand how much you might object to this. However, I cannot leave my father to his fate if there is still something that I can do. I am not asking for your support in this; I only want to be honest. We are family, after all.”

“Of course,” Agravaine said with a jerk of his head. “I–I understand, Arthur.” He had paused appropriately, then said, “I’m not comfortable with this. The idea of bringing a sorcerer into Camelot, into the very heart of the citadel, it is fraught with danger.”

_However_ , Merlin predicted sourly.

“However.” Agravaine did not disappoint. “You are my liege, no matter how I dislike this venture. If your mind is set on this plan, I can do naught but give you what aid I am able.”

It was hard to spot, but Merlin caught Arthur’s posture losing some of its stiffness in relief. “Thank you. Your support means a great deal to me.”

Once he had seemed to have diverted any possible suspicion, Agravaine became all too helpful. “Might I suggest sending out riders? We need not tell them the true meaning of their mission, but we might use this current situation with Morgana to our advantage,” he quickly proposed. “Have them search out signs of sorcery, supposedly tracking her. Anyone found suspicious would be brought back here for questioning. No one needs to know.”

Arthur had agreed to the plan, and the riders were dispatched before the morning was out. Merlin had watched them go from Arthur’s side, knowing full well that neither his prince nor his enemy would be finding what they sought. 

On top of the scouts, Arthur had ordered a thorough inventory of the vaults and libraries, checking for any contraband items that might offer a cure. Geoffrey the royal record keeper had hardly slept since. Gaius had returned to his own books. For three days the search had gone on non-stop.

Unfortunately, three days was not long enough.

On the fourth day, Merlin was shaken out of sleep by Gaius’s hand on his shoulder. “Merlin, come with me,” he whispered. The physician was already dressed and had his medicine bag slung over his shoulder. 

It was a dismal, murky morning, and bitingly cold. When Merlin and Gaius crossed the courtyard toward the royal wing of the castle, they had to wade through a heavy fog that left their hair dripping when they got back inside. Merlin wondered if snow was soon to come. He glanced warily back the way they came. Something dire was in the air today. 

The moment they stepped over the threshold of Uther’s rooms, Merlin felt it. He drew up short before they reached the bed and waited on Gaius. 

Gaius lifted the king’s eyelids, listened to his heart and breathing. He felt his forehead. Then he turned to Merlin, defeat in his eyes.

“You should fetch Arthur. He needs to say goodbye, before it’s too late.”

Merlin nodded. He couldn’t help his eyes being drawn to the king as his hands curled into loose fists. Magic flowed like water to his fingertips. He knew what he had to do, but nevertheless his mind conjured up the image of Arthur, overjoyed and smiling at his father’s inexplicable recovery, so easily within reach. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing, Gaius?” he said aloud, though he wasn’t really seeking an answer. 

Gaius clasped his hands together. For all his loyalty to the king, the relief had been apparent when Merlin had made clear his intention to stay out of it. “I just want you to be safe,” he admitted. 

Merlin would be safe, no matter what happened. Uther could wake up right at that moment to catch Merlin transforming the wardrobe into a dolphin and it would have been fine. So it all came down to what Merlin believed. Arthur would survive, Camelot would have itself a much better king, and hell, even Uther would have a more peaceful end than before.

Merlin turned on his heel and strode out to find Arthur.

* * *

“Is there really nothing you can do?” Lancelot asked under his breath. He, Merlin, and the rest of the knights were gathered outside the king’s chambers. Arthur was within, along with Gaius and Gwen. No word yet, nothing for hours, but they all waited with bated breath for the doors to open.

Merlin, leaning up against the wall with arms crossed, shook his head. “Too big a risk. If something went wrong it would only kill him faster, and if that happened Arthur would be even more set against magic.”

Lancelot breathed out deeply. “I wish there was more we could do for Arthur.”

Their whispered conversation came to a halt when the door creaked open. Everyone in the hall tensed as Gwen emerged. Her eyes were reddened and sad, but she shook her head. The king still lived. 

“How is Arthur?” Elyan asked.

Gwen’s head bowed and her hands linked together. “He’s… He hasn’t talked for some time. Gaius ordered me out, told me to get something to eat.” She sniffed, calming herself, before turning to Merlin. “Would you go in, Merlin? He needs a friend there.”

Merlin of course agreed, but privately he dreaded what lay in that room. Nevertheless, he traded places with Gwen, slipping into the room as softly as he was able. 

The curtains had been drawn shut, the room lit with many candles instead. The king lay still and gray on his grand bed, practically a corpse already. Gaius was leaning over his patient, but gave a nod of acknowledgment at Merlin’s entrance. Arthur, hunched in his usual chair at the bedside, made no sign. 

Merlin didn’t draw up a chair this time, merely standing behind Arthur. He felt he had no right to sit. He had no love for Uther, and by Merlin’s inaction the man’s fate was sealed.

They kept the vigil for an unknowable amount of time. Not too long, Merlin thought. Gaius straightened up as much as he was able. The physician seemed twice as bent and weary. “I must fetch some things from my chambers,” he said.

“I can bring them for you,” offered Merlin.

“No, I’d best get them myself. You wouldn’t know where to find them.”

Merlin doubted that. Besides, what could possibly help now? Unless what Gaius intended to bring was meant for the dead rather than the living, and didn’t want to say as much in front of Arthur. Whatever it was, Merlin acquiesced with a nod and Gaius shuffled from the room. The door shut behind him with a quiet snap.

Arthur hadn’t stirred at all during their conversation, nor made a sound. It seemed as if nothing could bring him out of the despaired torpor he had fallen into. With Gaius gone and nothing seeming to reach Arthur, Merlin felt a sudden, compelling urge to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. Not just that, either. He felt he needed to kneel down, make sure Arthur looked him in the eye, and then swear that everything would be all right in time. But would Merlin, the one that everyone here knew, do those things? 

Words. Those were all right. He’d used them to encourage Arthur many times. Now what to say without being false, knowing he could heal Uther but chose not to? He struggled to compose his thoughts, make something meaningful. His mind was coming up blank.

Then he saw one tear escape down Arthur’s cheek, and all thought of careful wording escaped. Merlin blew out a breath and decided just to speak.

“You know, there was once this man I knew.”

Nothing.

“An old man. Very old. From Ealdor, my village… And from what I understand, he lost a lot over his life. His parents, friends, the woman he loved, his…children. And the cause he had devoted himself to.” Arthur’s head might have tilted just slightly. “But he kept living. Going forward. I think I know why. I think it’s because he found out that there was always something ahead, someone who would need him next. I know it will be hard, and I know you’ll miss your father. But your people will need you now. You’re strong enough, I know you are.”

Arthur stared ahead, and for a moment Merlin thought they would go back to silence. Then the prince asked, “And what happened to the old man?”

Merlin’s jaw locked shut. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment.

“No disrespect to him but I think there’s a difference between a man beholden only to himself choosing to serve others, and one who has no choice whether he’s qualified or not.” Arthur sounded terrible, his words rasping like sandpaper.

“You are ready, Arthur. I don’t know what makes you believe you aren’t.”

The prince turned his head just enough to see. His eyes were sunken and dull. “Maybe the fact that the current king is lying on this bed dying for my sake.”

Merlin frowned. “That was King Odin’s doing, not yours.”

“I killed his son. Even if I didn’t want it to happen, it still did and now look where it’s got me. How can I take the throne knowing it’s been left empty because of my actions?”

“Actions of the past, and a younger, more inexperienced man. Don’t get lost in the past, you’ll—drown in it.” He stuttered a bit. His ribcage felt as if it had tightened restrictively, and his tongue tasted of a lie, though he hadn’t told one. Knowing Arthur was watching he ducked his head and angled away. “You know what, never mind me. I-I’m rambling,” he mumbled. He had said too much. Far too much.

He was lucky in his timing. Whatever Arthur had been about to say was cut off by a strangled cough from Uther, the king’s arm spasming on the covers. Arthur’s attention was ripped away, and he reached out to grasp his father’s hand. Merlin stood and observed mutely, feeling utterly useless. 

“Arthur,” he tried again. “No matter what happens, you won’t be—“

Uther coughed again, rougher this time, and it trailed into a gurgling gasp. His head lolled to the side.

“Father!” Arthur cried. He spun around to Merlin. “Run and get Gaius!”

There would be no time for that. Merlin could feel it, like a deadening in the very air around them. Uther’s time was up.

It was quick, just like it had been before when Merlin’s healing spell had been turned against him. The king’s eyelids fluttered, his chest heaved three times, and then fell still. It didn’t rise again. 

“N-No.” Arthur collapsed back into his chair, still holding Uther’s hand. “Father…”

Merlin backed away. He stayed in the room, but kept his distance. Saying anything now would be pointless. Self-relegated to the corner and watching his once-again king weeping over his father, Merlin had a dreadful sense of a great gap yawning between them that not even magic could cross. He felt that he should know what to do, know what to say, but no matter how he wracked his brain he couldn’t find what he searched for. If he went up to Arthur now and said or did the wrong thing, he was certain that Arthur would look up and automatically see the truth: a stranger in his friend’s body. Merlin’s throat grew dry at the thought. He wouldn’t delude himself into thinking it wasn’t a possibility one day, perhaps even an inevitability, but he felt perilously vulnerable at the idea. He had revealed his magic once before, and when the right time came he would do it again. Everything else, though, the whole wretched lot of it… That was a totally different matter. He willed Arthur not to turn around. Surely he would see it all writ large on Merlin’s face if he did. He’d played too risky already. So he stayed silent and useless in the corner, unseen.

Gaius’s return was a godsend. Merlin ducked out. He didn’t like how close to true fear he had come. 

He pushed open the doors that suddenly seemed unbearably heavy. The five knights in the hall straightened to attention, or rose to their feet when they saw him. Merlin allowed the doors to swing-to behind him before he spoke.

“The king is dead,” he said gravely. 

Leon bowed his head first, shoulders drooping. He was the only one among them that had been Uther’s knight first. The others followed his example, even Gwaine who had never had a good opinion of Camelot’s newly-late king. They were Arthur’s men, and they would mourn his loss as if it were their own. Merlin passed his gaze over them all, and then back over his shoulder where his king mourned within the bedchamber. _And now a new reign begins_ , he thought.

The word spread quick and silent as winter mist. As first knight, Leon was appointed to alert the council. The news went out through Arthur’s inner circle to the rest of the knights, and from the knights to the castle staff. Before the day began to darken a crier had been sent into the lower town, to shout out that the king was dead. 

Arthur was allowed to stay by his father’s side while Gaius performed the last procedural checks, but then he was ushered away. Other men would take the king’s body away to prepare it for the last vigil, and then burial in the royal tombs in the morning. 

The grieving prince and his servant found themselves back in Arthur’s chambers right as the citadel bells began to ring, their long, deep notes tolling out across the city. Arthur shambled in sightlessly, coming to a stop in the middle of the room and looking lost. 

Merlin wished he could call Gwen. She could be comforting in a way Merlin never could be, not even in the old days, but there was no time for that. Arthur’s vigil would be starting soon. 

By the time Merlin had collected Arthur’s mail and accompanying gear from the chest at the foot of the bed, Arthur had slumped into a chair, elbows resting on the table and face in hands. Merlin wished he could let him be.

“Sire,” he said softly.

It took a minute, but Arthur got up. He stood stiffly, arms raised enough to allow Merlin to pull on the mail. As Merlin tightened the belt and strapped on the vambraces, he was almost intentionally rough. Perhaps the feel of the armor being locked in place would lend his old friend the resolve he needed, the outer presentation of strength banishing the inner fears. Merlin had similar experiences himself. He’d led many lives, separated and parceled within the longer, unending one. When one life finally fell to dust, all the people he’d known in it perished and all the causes complete, he found a comfort in pulling on a new skin: a new name, a new role, a new history, maybe even a new face if he expended the magic. Bury the old and be absorbed by the new. _Have a mask for every occasion._

A knock came at the door just as he cinched the last strap. Arthur went rigid, stone-faced.

“You won’t be alone,” Merlin murmured at his back.

If Arthur heard him he gave no sign. Merlin followed him out.

The corridors of the castle were eerily empty, everyone gone to pay their respects to the dead king according to their station. The same dark, unseen cloud that Merlin had sensed in the morning hovered even more heavily about them. Night had fallen once again, just as shrouded and foreboding as the day. Not even the brightest full moon would break through the murk tonight. 

It was all too perfect.

They were just about to descend the western stairs to the throne room when Merlin felt the world go terribly cold. Something slammed into his chest, hard enough to knock him back a step, and for a moment he feared to look around him to find a black-clad woman standing there, with those terrible sad eyes and invisible to all but him.

No, this couldn’t have happened. The veil could not have been split, that was only possible on Samhain. Breath frozen in his lungs, Merlin’s head whipped from side to side, looking for the spectral gatekeeper. There was nothing. Arthur was just rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, oblivious to the fact that Merlin wasn’t following anymore. No Callieach to be seen, and Merlin wasn’t about to fall unconscious, as far as he could tell. He knew that feeling, though. Something had crossed over from the other world. Not as powerful or as numerous as the Dorocha it seemed, but any visitors from the land beyond death were dangerous.

It had to have been Morgana. Why, why now? Would she never just give up?

He galloped down the stairs, turning in the opposite direction of the throne room. Merlin would have preferred a stab in his gut to leaving Arthur’s side right now, but he was Camelot’s protector too. He had told Morgana as much. Whether this was her or not, he would not leave this threat running loose, whatever it was. 

He let his mind’s eye fly open, searching the castle for Lancelot. He wasn’t far. The warlock whipped around a corner, speeding up to a run. 

The knight was heading for his chambers when Merlin came sprinting down the corridor toward him. “Merlin!” he exclaimed, alarm flaring in his eyes and voice.

“Something’s happened,” Merlin spat out, skidding to a halt in front of him. He clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Make sure there are guards on Arthur,” he ordered fiercely. “And don’t let Agravaine out of your sight.” Perhaps this was a diversion from some other plan of attack. 

“What’s going on?” He caught hold of Merlin’s arm before he could take off again.

“I’m not sure. Something bad, that’s all I know. Don’t let your guard down until I come back.”

Lancelot’s grip tightened. “You’re going on your own?!”

“I usually do,” Merlin said, tone on the verge of cool. He didn’t have time for this.

“No. All you can say is that something dangerous is going on, you don’t even know what you’re getting into. We’ll tell Gaius about Agravaine, and I’ll come with you.” Stubbornness was setting in. Merlin had to shake him off quickly, and not just for time’s sake. It was too much like the Dorocha, and he would not tempt fate when it came to his friend’s life. Spying a bit on Agravaine was one thing, this was quite another.

“Please Lancelot, I’ll be fine,” Merlin insisted. “Gaius will be occupied with Uther’s death, and you’re the only other person that can know about this. Besides, I can’t drag you out there with a lame wrist. I promise, nothing will happen.” Reading that Lancelot didn’t believe him in his furrowed brows and suspicious gaze, Merlin tried a last bid. “If it’s something beyond my abilities, I won’t get in the middle of it, I swear on my mother’s life. But we need to know what’s happened.” 

It was a tense few seconds, and Merlin was warming to the idea of just hitting his friend with a sleeping spell when the iron grip released from his arm. “All right,” Lancelot acquiesced. “I’m trusting you to keep that vow. But if you’re not back by dawn, I’m coming after you.”

Merlin only gave him a nod as he took off again. 

The sword he had stolen from the armory back on Samhain was stashed under his bed, alongside the dark cloak, the first book of magic he had ever owned, and the Sidhe staff he had won from the Tír Mòrs. He took the sword and cloak, considered the staff, but ultimately left it behind. This was not Sidhe magic he was setting out to deal with, and any form of magic could only be effective against its own kind or the mundane. 

Now to find the threat. Practically praying that Gaius would not come back before he was finished, Merlin grabbed the wash basin and pitcher from his minuscule table and set them on the floor. Crouching over it, Merlin poured the tepid water into the basin, incanting under his breath as he did. Although the basin was shallow, the water that began to pool in it became as black as the dusk outside, with no glimpse of the bottom to be seen. 

When the last ripple had smoothed out to leave an obsidian mirror in its wake, Merlin dipped index and middle finger into the water and swirled them about the rim. His eyes flashed with a new magical command. _“Díegol bescín, burna blaec ábir, bealucwealm ælwiht hwerflung. Díegol bescín, burna blaec ábir, bealucwealm ælwiht hwerflung!”_

The water pulsed once, twice, and then the darkness gave way to gray. A mist-veiled forest shivered in the water. Beyond the tree line, he could just barely make out the glint of firelight and the deeper shadow of a cluster of huts; a small village. Beneath the darkness of the trees, one of the patches of pitch pooled among the roots detached itself, shuffling forward grotesquely. Its shape was indistinct, but definitely animalistic. Two haunting spots of dead light, pupil-less eyes like rotting stars, burned the mist away before them.

Merlin dashed away the vision in the water and stood up. Within seconds the sword was belted on and the cloak whisked across his shoulders. He could not allow that creature to wreak havoc on that village, and he could not afford the time to ride there. He would have to take a shortcut. 

If Morgana was there, if this was her doing, there would be no second chances this time.

_I’ll be back before dawn_ , he promised Arthur. _You won’t be alone._

Concentrating as hard as possible on the image he’d seen, Merlin tossed the hood of the cloak over his face and chanted, _“Byre! Astyre mé æt ælwiht!”_

With a momentary shriek of wind that sent his shutters banging and the pages in every book fluttering like a panicked flock of birds, he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Climax next chapter! Thanks to all of y'all who have been leaving comments and kudos :)


	9. From Beyond the Veil of Death

“Allard, call Brandon in, will you? Supper’s just about ready.”

Allard grumbled. He was quite comfortable in his seat by the fire, easing out the stiffness in his limbs accumulated over a long day of collecting and chopping wood, enough of it to supply the village for a good while yet. He’d been at it since the clouded sun came up all the way to when the world became a soup of nighttime fog and bone-biting chill, so the idea of going back out into it was not high on his list of priorities. “The boy’s a man grown, Isabel. If he can’t be bothered to give that Margaery girl some peace and show up for dinner, that’s his problem.”

“Oh, Allard,” Isabel huffed, rubbing her hands on her rough-spun apron in that manner that said she was not going to drop it. 

Allard, knowing it was going to happen eventually, let out an especially loud snort of displeasure before hauling his poor, aching body from its seat and crossing to the door of their tiny house. 

It was a wicked sort of night, make no mistake. The half moon stood no chance against this dense gloom. He could hardly see two huts down the muddy road before everything was swallowed. Damn boy, always making things difficult. Allard wished his son was still small enough to simply haul around by the ear. Much more manageable that way. Tucking his tunic more tightly about his trembling body, Allard trudged off down the slick roadway. No doubt he would find Brandon floating about his little lady love.

It was only a short walk to the Tillens’ home, but every step of it was a misery. Aside from the chill and lack of visibility, Allard couldn’t help but feel weirdly unsettled the farther he got from the warmth and sheltered walls of his home. He paused every now and again, listening intently, but there was nothing to hear aside from the usual night noises. Still, he walked faster. He wasn’t a superstitious man by any means, but he did know that instincts were not to be simply brushed aside. 

He rapped loudly against the Tillens’ door, muttering under his breath. Robert Tillens answered it, his countryman looking a bit miffed. “Oh, it’s you, Allard. Thought you were Margaery and that boy of yours.” His neighbor’s lip curled a bit in disdain. “They’ve snuck off again. If your son’s doing anything improper…”

“I swear, Robert, if Brandon’s doing things he shouldn’t with your daughter, I’ll take a switch to him myself,” Allard replied. “Right now, all’s I care about is getting his fool hide home so I can kick my feet up at the hearth. Where did they go?”

“Beyond the village borders.” Robert waved his hand vaguely toward the southbound road. 

Allard groaned. “On a night like this? When I bring them back, we’d better both knock some sense into their thick heads.”

“Believe me, I will.” With disgruntled acknowledgements on both sides, Robert shut the door and Allard set off in the direction he’d been pointed. 

The moment he stepped beyond the last house, the village vanished, as if it had been swallowed up into the earth. Allard was alone in a world that was hardly more than four meters wide in any direction, with four drifting walls locking him in.

Should have brought a lantern, he mused uneasily. He hadn’t thought he would be going this far. He could only hope, as exasperated as he was, that the two youngsters had thought to do so. If they had gone out too far, it would not be easy to find their way back. He trudged on, beating his chilled arms and trying to quell the fear pooling in his stomach.

There was a rustle. He stopped. A thump. Then running footsteps, fast closing in. Allard stumbled back a bit, alarm rising like bile in his throat before he heard panicked gasping. And sobs. A girl’s sobs.

A pelting figure burst from the mist, almost colliding with him. A strangled scream rose from the girl’s throat before she seemed to recognize him. Then she flung herself into his chest, shaking like a newborn fawn and letting out choking wails.

“Margaery?!” Allard cried, recognizing the red hair. “Good god, what’s happened to you, girl?”

Margaery gasped, then tried to yank away. The lass was like a frenzied animal, eyes rolling in their sockets and her skin bone-white. “P-Please! We have t-to go, we have to RUN! Brandon, oh heavens, Brandon!”

Allard seized her by the shoulders as panic seized hold of him. “What?! What’s going on, where is my son?!”

Margaery looked mad with fear, and her eyes kept twitching back the way she’d come. “W-We we-were together, we were walking b-back, and then—and then…it came. Out of the mist, the monster! It-It got him!” she howled, tears streaking down her pretty face. “It took Brandon! And it’s coming for me now! Please, we have to go!”

She didn’t even wait for a reply. Wrenching herself from his grip, Margaery took off into the fog, disappearing within a moment.

Allard’s heart thudded madly in his chest. His boy was out there. Something had attacked his son. He didn’t put much stock in monster tales, but there were wolves in these woods, and other beasts of stranger sorts, all very dangerous. For a moment, Allard stood at a loss. His son needed help, but Allard was unarmed and alone, and not at the peak of strength besides. Whatever beast was prowling around out there, he doubted he would be any match for it.

Then he heard a cry. A man’s garbled cry, trailing off into a haunting moan of pain.

Brandon. He was close, and hurt. Steeling himself, Allard plunged into the murk. _I’m coming my boy, just hold on._

He seemed to wade forever, his eyes scanning frantically for a sign of his son, for any approaching threat. Should he call out? There hadn’t been another sound to help him along. He feared what that might mean.

Just as Allard was resigning himself to having to shout, he saw something. He jerked to a halt. A crumpled form lay in the road. As he stared, it twitched slightly, and another moan trembled from it.

“Brandon!” Allard cried, stumbling forward, fear and relief warring in his heart.

In less than a second, both emotions were crushed beneath a shock of absolute, heart-stopping terror. The shape on the road had shifted, and when the head rolled to face him, he saw that it was not a human head. Blank white orbs stared him down, and as another horrifically human-sounding groan emerged from it, a crescent moon of white fangs split open in a hellish grin.

Allard didn’t have time to scream. He didn’t even really see it move. All he registered were those dead eyes suddenly filling up his vision, and the cold stench of the grave. And it was over. 

The beast crouched over its prey. Tipping back its head, it did not howl, but rather let out a grating, tapering scream, the sound of a man being dragged to hell. 

* * *

The whirling, wind-tunnel feel of instant transportation stopped abruptly, dropping Merlin roughly onto loamy forest floor.

The warlock staggered against a tree, trying to catch his faltering breath while checking for any nearby threat. It had been some time since he had last transported himself like that, and he already felt exhausted. The restless nights preceding this one weren’t helping either. 

_Get it together_ , he told himself. He heaved himself upright. The spot of forest he had landed in matched the one he had seen in the scrying water, but the beast wasn’t there. However, he was close to the point where it had been summoned from the other side. The air in that direction throbbed with chilling wrongness, the essence of the spirit world leaking out like cold from a cracked-open fridge. 

Merlin debated on what he should do. The creature could not be allowed to reach the villagers, but if Morgana had been the one to summon it, she might still be near the origin point. This could be his chance to finish this mess, the mess he had invited by letting her go. 

Ultimately, Merlin turned deeper into the forest, away from the village. If he knew what this creature was it would be easier to banish it, and if Morgana was foolish enough to linger, two birds with one stone. 

He found what he was looking for in a steep-sided, rocky basin in the forest. The dead leaves littering the ground had been swept away, and a sigil of summoning was burnt into the dirt. Sliding down the slope and kneeling at the center, Merlin conjured a light to hover above his head as he searched for the pattern and any runes that could tell him the nature of his beast.

It was a great swirling design, not uncommon when dealing with necromancy, but the writing along the edge of the circle gave him his answer. Merlin hissed under his breath, “Black dog.” Omens of death, shepherds of lost souls. This was not good. In their natural state, black dogs were neutral creatures. They led wandering spirits to their proper destinations at their most benign, but if dragged from the other side and exposed to the living world with its many bright, living souls…Merlin had seen the kind of carnage they could wreak. Damn him to ten thousand more years of immortality before he saw that happen in Camelot. Only the summoner of the beasts had any measure of safety from them.

He also found another marker, almost like a scent of the conjurer’s magic, and it was a familiar one. He’d sensed it on the Isle of the Blessed, although it had been greatly magnified there, easy to follow. This was Morgana’s work for sure. But what could she gain by attacking one little village, one not even that close to Camelot? His eyes narrowed. He had his suspicions.

Merlin’s head shot up when an eerie shriek was blown to him on the night winds. He stood up quickly, blood turning to ice. Black dogs only screamed when they killed.

Every sympathetic part of him wanted to take off running in that direction, but his logical side knew that he would be too late to save whatever poor soul had fallen victim to the beast. If he made pursuit now, it would only make things harder. Black dogs could not be killed or truly harmed, and the only way to properly banish one was to send it back through its summoning point, which was an already unlocked door to the land beyond. Trying to force it back to the other side through sheer might was something even he dared not attempt. So he would make his stand here, and hope no one else was out there in the path of danger.

It hit Merlin suddenly. This was the first sign. By coming back to the past Merlin had every intention of changing certain events, doing things differently, but this was the first alteration resulting from his return that was out of his control. There had been no black dog the first time, they would have known about it otherwise. Indirectly, Merlin’s actions had somehow resulted in a death that hadn’t happened before.

 _It really is starting, then,_ he thought grimly. _A whole new destiny is beginning to form itself, and there’s no stopping it now._

Now to make the black dog come to him. He closed his eyes and visualized walls coming down, thin ropes wrapped around him snapping loose. With every piece of shielding he shook off, his ancient magical presence flared outward just a little bit more. He would be sending out a beacon to all magically attuned creatures in the area. If the black dog was so drawn to normal souls, there was no way it could ignore an immortal one. 

He doubted Morgana could either.

He hoped the beast would hurry up. Even with the creature probably bearing down on him right that second, even if he had not completely let down his guards, Merlin locked his arms around himself, a tremble working its way down his spine. Unblocked, Merlin felt insecure and loose, as if he wasn’t existing just in his body, but also floating around it in rags and swirls like invisible smoke, so that the wrong breeze could yank a piece of him away with it. It was when he was like this that, despite his age, he relearned the fear of his own abilities. “Come on,” he snarled under his breath. “Come and take a bite!”

A shape exploded from the mist in reply, a bone-chilling keen whistling from it as it barreled into the hollow. With a flash of his eyes and a whip of his hand, Merlin smashed the creature off-course. It slammed into the ground and rolled, before staggering back to its feet. The corpse eyes stared Merlin down. The thing could hardly be classified as a dog, but it was the closest approximation. No other detail could distinguish it; its form was liquid and pitch black, as if the creature had been conjured up from a tar pit. A grisly grin showed off its teeth. 

Merlin didn’t take his eyes off of it, stance ready for the moment the dog lunged. The summoning sigil was directly between them. He would have to be ready with his magic the moment it made its move. 

A rush of pounding paws and a shock of instinct on the back of his neck was his only warning. His magic reacted for him, lashing out and catching the second black dog as it pounced for his unprotected back. The distraction was almost enough to give the first dog an opening, getting so close he could feel the cold reek of its breath blasting across his face, but he was just quick enough. Another surge of magical power sent this one tumbling as well. It scrambled for only a moment before it was back on its feet.

Merlin backed up a step, both hands out and ready, keeping both the prowling dogs in sight. They were chuffing and moaning, desperate to get to him, eyes bulging in their dark heads. “Clever Morgana,” Merlin panted roughly. “So it _was_ me you wanted after all.”

“It was indeed.”

Merlin twitched an eye upward to the highest ridge of the hollow, making sure the hood of his cloak was still draped low over his face. There she stood, drawn up proudly and looking down on him with a vicious sneer. When he caught sight of the dark scars striping her skin, a twinge of disturbance assailed him. Had he done that?

The last time he had seen her on the Isle of the Blessed, she had been wrecked with grief for the death of her sister Morgause, whom he had killed; still raging, but the devastation and vulnerability brought back scraps of his oldest memories, when Morgana had been his friend, a woman he’d long since buried. Among other reasons, it had been just enough to stir the cold ashes of his old affection for her, prompting one last, hopeless chance out of him. Tonight, however, the new Morgana, the one that had replaced his friend, was out in full force just as he remembered her. For a moment, all he could do was stare as it struck him again. Who was this woman? Where had the kind and noble spirit gone? An oozing whisper slithered into the back of his mind. _You could probably answer that question, if you looked in a mirror long enough._

A bitter smirk was playing on Morgana’s lips. “Our positions have reversed, haven’t they, Emrys? Now I’m the one standing above you.”

“Difference is,” Merlin replied, making sure to add the draconic rumble to his voice he’d had last time, “I was willing to let you go, to give you a second chance. I doubt you’ll afford me the same courtesy.” His magic, already taut to strike out at the dogs, pushed painfully against his bones and his fingertips, longing to escape and take out the imminent threats. He stared up at her, remembering all the misery she had ever caused, all the death and destruction. 

She laughed, every second of it dripping with disdain and mockery. “As if I would grant any kindness to the man who killed my sister.”

“To prevent you from tearing the Veil. She would have died anyway, Morgana. Is it really her you seek vengeance for, or was it your missed chance at the throne of Camelot?”

The haughty expression cracked. Her eyes widened and her face paled impossibly with rage. “How dare you!”

“Have I hit a sore spot?”

Morgana had gone completely rigid, and the dogs were moaning. One began to inch forward, but Morgana snapped at it in the language of the Old Religion, and it halted. When her gaze came back to Merlin, the hatred had been tempered with morbid curiosity. “Who are you, that you would speak so to a High Priestess? Why have you appeared now, and where have you come from?”

“Only if you tell me why you crave the throne so badly.”

“It is mine by right! With me as queen, Camelot could embrace magic once more.”

Merlin tilted his head to the side. Somehow, knowing that he had nothing to fear made space for curiosity. All the old questions about Morgana’s motivations, all the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’, had faded into obscurity with time and in the wake of her escalating crimes, but now he couldn’t help but wonder again. He had the chance to ask. “I can understand that,” he admitted flatly, “But I can’t say I’ve seen much sympathy for other sorcerers in you. You would harm anyone to achieve your goals. You were willing to sacrifice what time you had left with your sister to hurt others, the vast majority of whom had never lifted a finger against you. What do you _really_ want?”

“And why would I tell you that?”

“Call it an enduring curiosity.” His voice lowered, trembling through dirt and stone. “I watched you Morgana, for years. Your hatred for Uther and his like I understand all too well, however strongly I disagree with your methods. But you have great power. You had influence. You were loved by many. Was that not enough to have wrought change, without all the death and suffering? Why was this the course you chose?” There was little hope of receiving a satisfying answer, but he couldn’t help the asking.

Morgana’s eyes narrowed, but at the same time the fevered enmity seemed to fade. She seemed much more contemplative, and for a moment, in spite of the slavering black dogs straining to attack and the scarred mien of a vengeful priestess, she looked almost like her old self. Merlin, to his surprise, felt a stab of longing. It wasn’t allowed to last long, before he stamped it out. _Stop it, you fool! She had her chance. She won’t get another._

There was a prolonged moment of silence, but for the whining of the dogs. Then Morgana’s face split into a cruel grin, and the manic spark returned to her eyes. “Why, it’s quite simple. Because I want to see all of Camelot kneel before me. And as for my beloved brother, and all those loyal to him… I plan to tear them asunder until nothing is left of them. Not a single one.”

Merlin breathed in. 

He breathed out. 

On the outside he was still as stone, but for the clenching of his fists, but beneath his skin his magic began to twitch and writhe like a mad thing. Her words echoed in his head like a clanging bell. 

_I will tear them asunder until nothing is left of them. Not a single one._

There was a flash, a glimpse of memory like so many others he’d experienced, and so brief it was barely a flicker, but it was enough to recognize it.

Darkness cut by searching lights. Artificial thunder roaring in the skies. Screams. The smell of blood. A panic and despair he hadn’t felt for more than a thousand years. And for a moment, all he saw was white. 

Merlin banished it almost as quickly as it came, trying to deny how fast his heart had begun pounding and the creeping fear at the edge of his mind. He knew this. This wasn’t like his normal, more harmless flashes. He could feel a numbness creeping into his hands, the panicky, spiraling sensation that followed.

No. No, he could not be _doing_ this now. He could not fall into _that_ memory. He wouldn’t. His gaze struggled to refocus on the woman standing above him. He could feel his face twisting into an expression of hatred. When he spoke again, despite the throbbing in his ribcage, his voice was cold as ice. “Never.”

She laughed. “What hole have you crawled from so suddenly, oh mysterious Emrys,” she spat, “that has saddled you with a traitor’s loyalty to Uther Pendragon and his reign?”

“Not Uther. Never him.”

“So Arthur?” she scoffed. “He’s no better, you fool. He has no more sympathy for our kind than his father did. If you hadn’t taken my sister’s life, I might have allowed you to join me. Then you could have followed a true queen.”

It was all he could do to keep himself talking normally. Painful whiteness burned in his skull. _Not a single one_. Arthur. Gwen. The knights. Dead. Dying. Merlin couldn’t do anything. Nothing. Helpless.

All white.

“Hardly,” he said, his voice a deadly whisper. “Every man can change if he’s willing to listen. Magic or not, the moment you decide you’re above all counsel, you’ve lost all claim to rule. The moment you decide innocents are expendable for the sake of your ambitions, you’ve lost all claim to righteousness.”

“And I’ve lost all patience for your senseless bleating. I can feel that you are powerful, Emrys, and I almost grieve to snuff out such magic, but it is wasted on a blood traitor like you. Even you cannot beat back and banish two dogs of the other side at once.” With a snap of her fingers, the pair surrounding Merlin began to circle, forcing him into the center. His magic spiked hotter within him, threatening to rip out of him at the seams. He could still hear screams echoing in his head.

“Do you not have the stomach to come down and finish me yourself? To take your sister’s revenge?” His eyes tried to concentrate only on her, but it was getting harder. It was like other pictures were fading in and out over her, pictures he wanted nothing more than to avoid looking at. He could do this. He had to _focus._

“I thought it was only fitting. My sister was slaughtered by a pathetic dog, so why not return the favor? You achieved a coward’s victory with surprise and an impressive display, but I’m afraid your noble little endeavor ends here. But first I would see your face, see what piddling wizard with no claim in this war has risen above his ranks, so that I can watch you scream as you—“ 

Tasting victory, Morgana had lost all wariness. Gloating before the game was up had always been her way. No matter how hard he tried, Merlin couldn’t seem to stop the flashes, the pounding heart… the white. He had to do this now.

With a heave of his magic that his wearied body screamed protest against, Merlin vanished from his cornered spot in the hollow. He reappeared right behind Morgana, sword now in hand and swinging a deadly arc for her neck. 

Her fighter’s instincts served her well. She flung herself down just in time. Merlin’s sword sheared off a trailing lock of hair. He made to swing again, roaring out words of magic. The blade glowed reaper’s blue. No more chances.

Morgana flung herself away, stumbling and shrieking. His sword rent the ground. Merlin leapt after her, a pursuing shadow. The white and the flashes were filling his vision, he wasn’t even really seeing her, but he didn’t need to. His magic scrambled outward like rabid, reaching claws, snatching at her ankles and tripping her up before she could get up a proper run. She crashed to the ground. _FINISH IT_ , every bone and cell in Merlin’s body screamed. 

_Not a single one._

Then he felt another presence rushing up on him from the side, stinking of grave dirt. He barely had time to realize that the two dogs down in the hollow shouldn’t have been this close yet. Merlin only just got his arm up in time. He was knocked to the ground, away from Morgana, stars exploding behind his eyes when his head collided. His breath shoved from his lungs. A third black dog was on top of him. It latched onto his forearm and bit down. 

A yell was strangled back at Merlin’s gritted teeth. He heard bone crunching beneath the oozing jaws. Eyes flashing bright, a shockwave of force exploded outward, blasting a cloud of dead leaves and the black dog away. It took a chunk of his arm with it. Merlin stumbled to his feet, gasping. Streams of blood were trickling down his arm and dripping from his fingers, and the throbbing pain was fierce. Worse still, the flashes of a night that wasn’t this one were getting worse, like they’d been amplified by the sudden pain. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop them. 

_“THEY’RE COMING!”_

Merlin flinched violently. The voice in his head was achingly familiar. He shook his head wildly. Why, why, why tonight?! It had been years!

 _Then again_ , his mind whispered cruelly, _you haven’t truly had to fight since then, have you? You haven’t been hurt like this in some time. You should have known.  
_

His head whipped around, his lips drawing into a snarl as he searched for Morgana through the pounding in his head and the falsehoods in his eyes. He could see her, running now, running around the edge of the basin, trying to put a gap between her and him. Wouldn’t work. 

In a moment and a whirl of shadow, he appeared in front of her. The shock and terror in her eyes was as obvious as if she’d screamed it. Once again, the glowing blade went swinging for her.

_“GO!”_

Another miss, sinking into the loamy earth at a desperate shout from the past. Merlin gasped at this voice, different from the first, but still painful. Why?

He’d fallen off his guard, and Morgana hadn’t missed it. Her hand flung out, and this time Merlin did not have a shield ready. He rocketed backwards. When he landed, it was on his ravaged arm, and he howled. 

_“HELP US!”_

Then the dogs were on him again. 

One on his leg, one going for the throat. His bloody hand plunged up first, going for the eyes in desperation. Two fingers sank into cold mush, and one of the dead lights went out, but it didn’t stop the beast. It shoved forward, and with Merlin’s fingers hooked into its pitch-made-solid skull, the force of it snapped his hand completely backward. He was trapped.

Something hot and wild surged up inside him, and he didn’t bother to hold it back. With a roar more dragon than man, another blast of force escaped him, much bigger this time. Not just force. Fire, snow-white fire. It sent the beasts hurtling into the dark depths of the forest, out of sight. Merlin, gasping and snarling, dragged himself upright, ignoring the leg he could barely stand on. His gaze swung wildly about, searching.

Morgana was still staggering away, the third dog guarding her rear. An incantation of escape tumbled from her lips.

_Not a single one…_

A new pain surged up at the nape of Merlin’s neck, running down his arms to his trembling hands, a killer frost so cold and so vicious it would shatter him like glass if he did not respond. She would not escape him this easily. She would pay.

His sword lay not far from him. Even as the third dog charged him, jaws slavering, Merlin caught hold of the sword with his magic, and with a roar, he flung it straight and swift as a crossbow quarrel at Morgana’s back. It was not glowing blue this time. The magic that wreathed the blade was oily and dark, a poisonous purple-black of some untamed, vicious spell coiling all around it as it flew. It took her right in-between the shoulder blades just as the black dog took him in the chest. Merlin heard her scream as he and the beast tumbled back into the hollow. 

He felt the magic of the summoning sigil beneath him the moment his back collided with it. Calling up his magic, even as the dog slashed open his tunic and the skin of his chest, he rolled over once and activated the door. For an instant, a world of blackness opened its gates below them, and the cries of spirits echoed up from the depths of the earth. The black dog dissolved like morning mist, and the gate snapped shut. 

Merlin lay there. The other dogs would be on him at any moment, but a familiar crackling was sounding in his ears and ringing in his skull. His vision was fading in and out. Lifting his head, Merlin saw that the teeth and claws of the dog had gone deeper than he thought. The shreds of his plain gray tunic had been soaked black, and more was yet pumping out. Couldn’t feel much, though.

All so white.

Merlin let his head thump back into the dirt. Glowing eyes were staring down at him from the ridge of the hollow. As the thunder in his ears grew louder, he sighed. He tasted blood on his breath.

“Eight years,” he mumbled. 

The dogs plunged down on him. He yelled out the words of magic. The door opened. Then, he allowed himself to go to sleep. He drowned in the noise of thunder, and the wails of the dead. He couldn’t be sure if they came from the present, or the past.

He welcomed the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter and an epilogue left :) Thanks again for all the reviews and kudos, dear readers. Every one brightens my day.


	10. Dawn

King Uther lay in a state of regal repose. His heavy crown sat on his brow, his sword was clasped to his chest, and a magnificent cloak of Camelot red flared out around him. He was dead, but this was the most powerful and dignified he’d looked since Morgana’s betrayal. 

Arthur stood above the bier. His legs were stiff from long hours spent in vigil. Seeing some of that old power recaptured in his father’s corpse only made him feel more lonely and unprepared. There were still so many questions to ask, still so many things to learn before he could take the throne, but he had lost his chance. A part of him longed to ask them anyway, maybe hoping for a supernatural sign that would guide him on the correct path of kingship, but this was a vigil. The time for words was past, and Arthur was alone with his grief and his thoughts.

At the beginning of the vigil he had felt little. He still couldn’t quite grasp that Uther was gone. He’d stared at the bier for more than an hour, waiting for his father to wake up suddenly, or for the throne room to dissolve around him to the sound of Merlin’s morning wake up call. It was no dream, though; it wasn’t going anywhere.

Then he had begun to stew in a simmering wrath. First against Odin, and this never-ending feud because of a duel that had been totally fair by law, then against himself for needing his father to defend him. Finally, his anger turned against magic, although this time it was for its absence rather than anything it had caused. 

It was ridiculous, really. Magic was trouble, and for once it had kept itself away. Any other time Arthur would have appreciated it, but magic had been his only hope. It plagued Camelot with problems constantly, but when it might have done some good, it and its practitioners became scarce.

When he looked at it like that, though, his thoughts became tinged with guilt. He couldn’t ignore the fact that his father had executed people for using magic just as he had planned to use it. Hell, Gwen had almost been killed when she had been suspected of using magic to cure her father. Even if those who chose to do magic would eventually be corrupted by it, he couldn’t very well blame them for protecting their own skins. 

Arthur had sighed wearily, placing his hands on the bier and slouching in exhaustion. Perhaps Merlin had been right. It hadn’t been a well-constructed plan. What had he honestly been hoping for? That some sorcerer would just pop out of the blue, perfectly willing to help a king that would have put him to the pyre in an instant if he’d been of present mind? Even if Arthur had offered a pardon or protection, once Uther had found out what he’d done, any promises made would be null. Uther was king and could overrule any decree that came from the prince. Magic user or not, the idea of paying someone back for their help with execution left a bad taste in Arthur’s mouth.

Thinking it through, realizing how roughshod and hopeless his last resort had been from the start, dampened any anger he’d had toward magic. He almost didn’t want to let it go. Once he stopped being angry, it meant he was accepting the new reality.

He was to be king. Camelot was his now; all its lands, all its subjects, all its responsibilities. From now until his death, the joys, burdens, and the very survival of the kingdom rested on his shoulders. He could not fail. 

The weight of it all fell upon him harder and heavier than it ever had before, almost buckling his knees. For a short while he was overrun by panic. It had been hard enough for just a year; how was he meant to do this for the next forty or fifty?

So he forced himself to think of Guinevere: her warm smile, her understanding, her quiet strength. He thought of Gaius, and his uncle, his knights, and his peculiar manservant. His mother and father were gone, and his sister was now his enemy, but he had support. Just as he had in his time as regent, he would just have to take each day and each challenge as it came.

His father’s death accepted, his anger diffused, and the future to come made peace with, for now, he was left only with grief. It stayed with him the rest of the night.

The dawn crept up on him. He had no awareness of the lightening in the room until a single, heavenly beam shifted into just the right position, cutting through the ornate windows and splashing across the floor in front of him like radiant golden paint. 

Arthur shifted, body stiff and eyes dry. He looked away from his father’s body. The throne room was now filled with light, and the candles that had burned throughout his vigil were beginning to wink out, melted down to stubs. 

Arthur paused. When he stepped out of those doors, it really would be a new world. Uther would be taken to the crypts, and the council would begin preparations for Arthur’s coronation. The end of an era, and the beginning of another.

Leaning over the bier, Arthur planted a final kiss upon his father’s brow. Then he turned and walked away. 

Breathing deeply, Arthur pushed open the doors. The morning light spilled out around him and shared some of its beauty with the empty antechamber that waited outside. 

Acute loneliness clenched at his heart again, but he pushed it aside. The first step onto the stairs was a hard one, but with every succeeding one he felt stronger, and the loneliness was shoved far into the background.

It was a new day.   


* * *

  
Merlin woke up. The sky was the gray-blue of predawn, he felt as cold as the grave, and he had only one hollow thought pulsing dully through his mind.

_I died. Again._

It was a while before he could move.

It was like he had been resting on the bottom of a deep lake, where light and sound and sensation were all muted, but still present. It wasn’t really sleep, not even really absence. It was more a retreat, descending into a quiet, lonely place until he was ready to surface again.

His eyelids fluttered, blinking dew from his lashes. He was damp and filthy. The slopes of the hollow around him were clinging to the last rags of mist. The sky was turning to cream. 

Merlin forced himself to sit up, immediately regretting it as his head spun and his stomach rebelled. Those were familiar symptoms.

Half-consciously, he picked at his shredded tunic and trousers with trembling fingers. In the heat of the moment and the dark of the night, it had been easy to pass over the details of his injuries. In the creeping light, he was a grisly sight. His clothes were ruined, and tacky dried blood had made them stiff. Even more red was smeared on his skin. There were no injuries, though, not even a scratch, and when he pulled aside the rags and stared down at his chest, it was perfectly unblemished, and both his arm and leg were whole. No fresh wounds, and no scars either. Nimueh’s burn mark was gone, and he knew all the marks on his back had been erased as well. The only eerie blemish was the pale coldness of life’s absence that still clung to him. That, too, would fade soon enough.

It had been eight years since his last “death”. He had expected to be more unsettled about that than he was.

It was the memories from last night that were haunting. Merlin wobbled to his feet, stomach swooping and legs shaking. All of it, all the weakness and queasiness and bleariness of mind would fade away soon, but while he was freshly returned from un-death, it was rare he ever felt more vulnerable. Leaning up against the steep side of the hollow and closing his eyes, Merlin cursed himself under his breath. Better to be angry than afraid and utterly ashamed.

He had completely lost it, and it had all started because of her damned words, her vicious boasting.

Because of all that white.

_You’re a fool, Emrys._ He ran a hand through his tangled hair, reaching for composure. _You_ _should have known better. Eight years out of the game and you expected to clean house nice and easy? Have you learned nothing from all your years?_

He’d hoped… he’d hoped eight years would be enough. That if he just took a little time, if he just drowned those memories and the whiteness in quiet and simplicity for long enough, he could have avoided this. Apparently, it hadn’t been enough, and by rights he should have known to test it before something like this happened. He stared down at himself in disgust. One would think after all the shit he’d been through in his long lifetime, he would have gotten over this kind of response by now. Useless.

When his head stopped spinning, he finally took note of the fact that the forest was lightening with dawn. Opening his eyes again, he saw a few heavenly rays shooting over the rim of the hill above him. He had to get back, not just to stop Lancelot from chasing after him. He had to get to Arthur. There was one thing he had to do first, though.

He pushed away from the rock wall, doing his best to ignore his shakiness. The moment he’d scrambled up from the hollow, he set the floor of it ablaze, scorching away the summoning sigil. Too dangerous to leave something like that lying around. He peered through the surrounding forest, but there was no sign of Morgana. Well, very little sign. When he shambled over to where he had last seen her, his sharp eyes caught sight of a few small splashes of blood on the fallen leaves.

She still lived, of that Merlin was sure. If the blow he’d delivered had been spelled to kill a priestess, she would be lying here dead. In the heat of the mad attack last night, he hadn’t made that assurance, to his further shame. Still, Merlin shivered. There had been a spell on that blade, though. He didn’t know what it was, and that was frightening. It had attached itself almost against his will, a response to his…outburst. His own magic, out of his control, taking on a life of its own. Whatever that had been, even if it hadn’t killed Morgana outright, he knew that it had been powerful. As much as he hated to admit it, Morgana had slipped away for now, but at least he was fairly confident in the belief that he wouldn’t be seeing her again for quite some time. 

_I should have known better. It’s all too soon, I’m not as prepared as I should have been_. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. _I have to be. I have to. This can’t start happening again._

He set off slowly, back straight but every step tentative, as if any one of them would shatter the ground and send him back into the abyss. He could still feel those claws and teeth punching through his flesh, going deep. _Nothing I haven’t endured before. Wasn’t even the worst. It’s nothing_. The flashes of memory that had assailed him were thoroughly and pointedly ignored. Everything would be addressed in its proper time. 

When he reached the edge of the trees, however, he found his self-appointed task already half complete. The village wasn’t far ahead, and even from where he stood he could hear the weeping. So the victim had already been found and returned home. The villagers must have been searching before the sun was even up. Foolishness, but also great courage. Yet all for nothing.

Merlin could make the few villagers outdoors look away from him, take no notice, but he kept to the shadows and put the little houses between himself and them as much as possible. How like a ghost he must look, pale and bloodstained, shrinking from the light.

He found the woman in her little cot, the door open. Merlin slipped indoors with no one the wiser. The woman sat bowed in her chair, shoulders shaking with quiet, despaired weeping, deaf to the comfort of the few others that kept her company. Two shrouded forms were lain along a table. 

_There were two_. Merlin closed his eyes, shame and pity biting deep. 

“Come away, Isabel,” begged one of the young woman. “You must eat something.”

“I will not leave them,” the bereaved woman replied. She sounded strong, even with the trembling in her voice that came with her tears. She couldn’t be much older than Merlin’s mother was, if he remembered rightly. “I will stay with them until I must put them into the ground.” She swiped at her eyes and stood. Merlin backed away into a corner of the cottage as she walked up to the covered bodies. Her breath shuddered in exhale, but she still drew back the shrouds from their faces. She looked, and Merlin looked.

One was a young man, brown-haired and round-faced, not much older than twenty. The other was an older man, gray shot through his thinning hair and face lined with both care and years of laughter. Isabel began to weep harder again, but Merlin kept looking. He did his utmost to memorize their faces. By his actions, time had altered, leading to their deaths. The least he could do was carry their faces with him as he went forward, for however long that was. 

The light outside was growing. He had to go home. Yet even as he stopped in the doorway, he took a moment to place his hand on the frame and whisper a few words of protection and prosperity. Too little too late, but at least it was something.

He rode the wind back to Camelot, all the way back to his little storage bedroom. He bolted the door right away. The last thing he needed was Gaius walking in on him in this state. Then he sank to his bed, bowed head in hands. 

What a sight he made. He had to change, he had to get downstairs, but it took him time. A sluggishness had taken hold of his body and mind, the remnants of that dark sleep still dragging at him. Once it had worked itself out of his system, he would be in perfect health, not even the least bit tired, but for now it was proving persistent. 

Outside the bells began to ring, a final farewell to the departed king. Merlin listened to them tolling, and when they finally ceased, he forced himself up from the bed. _Keep moving forward. Don’t look back._

Cloak, tunic, trousers, and boots were all shed, not one of them having escaped savaging or staining. He stuffed the gruesome bundle back into the floorboard space along with the sword. He would have to burn them later. 

Then he hunched over the washbasin, rinsing away the dried blood and dirt. He had to keep spelling the water clean there was so much of it. Then he dressed in fresh clothes, and even fixed his hair. By the time he emerged from his room, no hint of the previous night could be found on him. 

Walking through the castle, it was impossible to miss how quiet it was. There should have been at least servants milling about at this hour, but it almost felt deserted. He sped up a bit, hoping he was not too late. He turned down the winding staircase that led to the throne room and peered over the marble bannister. He halted. The doors to the throne room were open, and there was no one to be seen. 

Merlin’s heart felt suddenly heavy, and the fact that he had indeed been too late was almost a shock. A disproportionate sense of loss filled him.

_I didn’t want you to feel that you were alone._

It seemed so small a thing. Even Arthur would agree that defending Camelot from a threat was far more important than making sure the prince had someone waiting for him at the end of his vigil, yet Merlin still felt the sting of failure. _Do better next time_ , an elusive voice inside whispered to him. _Make sure that next time, you can do both_. He turned around and trudged back the way he came. 

If he remembered correctly, Arthur would be looking for breakfast. The thought of breakfast made Merlin realize how hungry he himself should have been. He hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, and that was only a morsel of bread and cheese, but he felt fine. Perfect health, not hungry, and not tired; all effects of breaking his eight year streak. He’d forgotten how good waking up from death could feel. A burst of laughter escaped from him, and his shoulders trembled.

On his way to the kitchens, Merlin crossed paths with Lancelot, for which he was grateful. His friend was dressed for riding, and was pulling on his gloves with an anxious urgency. Merlin inhaled deeply, preparing. 

“I hope you don’t have your horse saddled already,” Merlin called out, pulling on the casual facade like a mask. “I would hate for some poor stableboy to have gone to that trouble for nothing.”

“Not yet,” Lancelot replied, worry replaced by relief and some irritation as the warlock walked up to him. “Back by dawn,” he bit out, pointing a finger in Merlin’s face. “That was the agreement.”

“It took me a little longer than I thought to get back. Did you see all that fog we had last night?”

Lancelot arched an eyebrow, not amused. “So whatever it was, it’s gone now?”

“Yes, it’s gone.”

“What was it?”

“A black dog,” Merlin admitted. “Normally they’re docile, but if they’re brought over from the other side they can be dangerous.” Before Lancelot could speak again, Merlin cut him off. “I told you, if it was something I couldn’t handle I would have fallen back, but I managed it. Here I am, whole and handsome as ever.” He gave a half-smirk, but it dropped quickly enough. “I wasn’t quite quick enough, though. Two lives were lost.”

Lancelot’s jaw clenched, and his head bent in sorrow. “I can only hope their families find peace,” he murmured, before looking back up at Merlin. “You did everything you could.” 

“I just wish it could have been more.”

The knight took a quick check of the empty corridors before he asked, “Did you find who was responsible? Was it Morgana? I tailed Agravaine, but he didn’t do anything suspicious.”

“It was Morgana. I felt her magic.” 

Lancelot’s brow furrowed. “But why? She wasn't attacking Camelot.”

“No. I think it was the village of Millwood, along the Brant river. There could be any number of reasons why. Undermining Arthur’s new rule, testing new magic, pure spite.”

Lancelot ran a hand through his hair, his eyes deeply troubled. “I don’t like this. Attacking the city straight-on is one thing, but if she makes moves against the people we can’t predict them, or reach them quickly.”

Merlin nodded. “And there’s no guarantee I’ll sense it every time.”

“Then what will we do?”

Right away, they need do nothing. Even without the unidentified spell on it, Merlin knew his sword had struck true against Morgana, and even a priestess needed time to recover from a blow like that. But going forward? “Whatever we can.”

“A noble sentiment, if a vague one.”

“Well, give me a few minutes to think on it. I don’t hide the solution to every magical problem up my sleeves,” Merlin said indignantly, struggling with the act. He just wanted to escape.

Lancelot snorted a laugh. “I suppose you’re right. We are, after all, only an army of two.”

“More than enough. She won’t have Camelot, no matter how hard she tries.”

“On that we can agree.”

They soon parted ways. The two of them would have to make plans, but the public hallways were certainly not the place to do so. Lancelot had his own duties to attend to, and Merlin still needed to find Arthur. It turned out he had not been by the kitchens, nor requested breakfast. Lucky for Merlin he no longer needed to run around the entire castle to find a person.   
His mind’s eye found Arthur alone up on the battlements. The rest of Merlin reached him just a little later, carrying a small breakfast with him. When Merlin spied Arthur as he reached the last step of the stairs, he paused.

There stood his king once more, leaning against the parapet wall and peering out across his kingdom. In the rising light of morning, the sun caught in his golden hair and winked off the links of his chainmail like so many specks of diamond. His eyes were narrowed against the glare, making him seem stern and contemplative. Beneath the golden facade, though, Merlin could read the sorrow. He was all there — his king, his friend, his destiny — once again set upon his path to legend. And alive. So very alive.

Would Merlin be able to bear it if he failed again? 

No. He wouldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t fail again. He’d been choking on the taste of failure for more than a thousand years. He had not suffered all that, and then broken the barriers of time to lose it all again. For the Golden Age that was within his grasp once more, he would do anything. 

Merlin approached, scuffing his boots to make his presence known. Arthur didn’t turn even when Merlin settled against the wall next to him. He did shift when Merlin scraped the breakfast tray across the stone toward him. 

“You should eat that,” Merlin murmured.

Arthur made no move. For a time they both looked out, at the town clustered below like rocks before a sea cliff, farther out to the forested land beyond the walls of the city, and then to the rolling slopes past that. In the west, the peaks of the White Mountains were washed white with the first snows. 

“It’s difficult to think that he’s gone,” Arthur said at last, gaze still fixed on his beloved Camelot.

Merlin squared his shoulders. _Be all that he needs you to be_. “I’m sorry for your loss, Arthur. Truly I am.” 

“I just…never really entertained the thought. He was always so…strong.”

Merlin didn’t turn his head. He didn’t want Arthur to catch the cold scorn entering his eyes. “He died on his feet at least, as I’m sure he would have preferred,” he said.

“Yes, he would have.” There was a pause, before the new king asked in a voice that was more vulnerable than he usually allowed, “What if I’m not ready, Merlin?”

“You will be.”

“And how could you possibly know?”

“I just do.”

Arthur pushed away from the parapet in frustration. “That’s very helpful.”

Merlin straightened up, giving his king a sharp glance. “I know you don’t make it a habit to listen to me, Arthur, but on this matter I ask that you try. You will be a good king, a great one, and you’ll have help along the way: your councilors, your knights, Gaius, Gwen. And me.”

“Then gods help Camelot.”

Merlin let loose a hard eye roll without intending to. Arthur was an absolute child, really, but Merlin found himself snorting a slight laugh again in the midst of the young king’s sourness. With the distance of years, he’d forgotten, or perhaps was just now realizing, how strange it was that fate or the gods or whatever else chose this man — arrogant, stubborn, immature, warm-hearted and courageous — to become a legend. He almost choked on another laugh when words spoken to himself a very long time ago rang in his head: _How small you are, for such a great destiny._

“What are you chuckling about?” Arthur asked. His face was scrunched in disgruntlement, but the worry and grief had been chased away, if just for a few moments.

“Oh, nothing.” Merlin turned to look out again, slouching to appear at ease. He was just Merlin; easy-going, peculiar, simple Merlin. He gave the breakfast tray another shove in Arthur’s direction. 

Arthur picked up the bread roll, fidgeting with it rather than eating it. Then he suddenly said, “You’re a good friend, Merlin.”

Merlin pressed his lips into a thin line. Would he be saying the same, had he known Merlin could have healed his father? Well, nothing for it now. On the other side of it all, he could only hope that Arthur would understand he had done it all—this and whatever else was to come—for the greater good. He tipped his head in Arthur’s direction, one eyebrow raised cheekily. “I know. Now are you going to eat that, or can I have it?”

“Find your own,” Arthur growled, tearing a chunk out of the bread roll.

Merlin smiled. While Arthur ate, Merlin remained in his place at the parapet and basked in the light of the day. He flexed his fingers a few times. The weakness post-death was all but gone. Morgana’s words were still adrift in his mind, though, and the very idea carved an icy trail down his spine. 

He wouldn’t let her win. At this point it didn’t matter why she’d turned or what she was trying to achieve. He would stop her, and he wouldn’t let his own weaknesses get in the way again. To his king he made a silent promise.

_By the end of it all, Arthur, I may not be the good friend you remember. I may not defend you from every hurt. But I will be there, even if you should come to hate me one day. I will always be there. No matter what._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the conclusive chapter! The epilogue should be quite short, so expect to see that tomorrow :)


	11. Epilogue: Solemn Vows

Trumpets roared to the heavens, and the gold and red pennants of Camelot flashed like silken fire in the high-riding sun. The common folk had flowed like a living river through the citadel courtyard, the people eager for a chance to claim a place in the royal courtroom. Those who could not still lingered to be as close as possible, for today they crowned their new king. 

Arthur waited in the antechamber of the throne room. He stood straight and proud, but he felt two feet tall. Beyond the doors waited his people, noble and common alike, to watch him ascend the throne. He could only hope that his facade of calm would not break in front of them, and that he wouldn’t trip on his cape or something.

The trumpets sounded off again, and then the doors swung open before him. His heart beat wildly in his throat, but he took the steps forward. He couldn’t do anything else. They were all waiting for him.

He strode down the long red carpet, first past the wide-eyed crowd of townsfolk at the rear, then past ranks of armor-clad knights, then the nobility decked in their finest, and last of all the places reserved for those in his personal service. It was a happy fate that they were all the people that mattered to him the most. It was a long walk. It felt never-ending, and he could not look around to catch the eyes of his friends. He had to look straight ahead, where the throne and the crown awaited him.

Arthur almost wasn’t aware of the moment when he reached the steps of the dais. It was bedecked in the colors and badge of the house of Pendragon. My house, he now knew. His body seemed to move on its own, borne along on an instinct that was stronger than Arthur’s reservations and fears. He took a knee, and listened to the pounding of his heart. This must be what destiny felt like. 

“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the peoples of Camelot according to their respective laws and customs?” Geoffrey of Monmouth called out across the great hall, voice raised so that all could hear.

Arthur swallowed. No matter what he thought of himself, he would give his all for his kingdom. “I solemnly swear so to do.”

“Will you, to your power, cause law and justice in mercy to be executed in all of your judgments?” 

“I will.”

“Then by the sacred law vested in me, I crown you Arthur, King of Camelot.”

The weight that settled upon his brow was heavier than he could have imagined, yet he stood and turned to face his people. 

With one voice, the crowd took up a chant. “Long live the king!” they cried.

He gazed out across that sea of faces, the people it was now his responsibility to govern and protect. So many of them, and hundreds more beyond the walls of this castle. It would have overwhelmed him, if words spoken to him a few days ago had not been planted in his mind. _You will be a good king, a great one, and you’ll have help along the way._

Arthur looked now to those faces. Agravaine was as solemn and composed as he ever was, chanting with the crowd. His knights bellowed out perhaps louder than all the rest. He could see Lancelot’s eyes shining, and Gwaine grinning even as he yelled out “Long live the king!” Gaius gave him a small nod when their gazes met. Guinevere’s eyes shone with unshed tears, and her smile out-brightened the golden sunbeams streaming in from the windows. 

Merlin was not smiling, or chanting. For a brief moment when they first locked gazes, Arthur thought he saw something there that was unfamiliar and unnerving, something intense and fierce and powerful.

But surely he had imagined it, for even as he got the impression, it was erased by the the bright, proud grin that spread across Merlin’s face as the servant added his voice to the building roar. “LONG LIVE THE KING!” 

Knowing they were all watching him, those who knew him best, he let the swelling chant draw him up straighter. The weight of the great golden crown felt suddenly less. For the love of Camelot, he would bear the weight as long as he lived.

* * *

“LONG LIVE THE KING!” Merlin roared. For him, it was a vow. 

_On my father’s grave, on my mother’s life, on the magic that was given to me to wield, on the pain of eternity should I fail, I will ensure the king lives long. Together, we will lead Albion into a new dawn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! For now, at least. Merlin's efforts to rewrite the past are far from over. 
> 
> My biggest thanks to everyone who's read this, and especially to those of you that took the time to leave reviews with every chapter.
> 
> Keep an eye out for the next installment, "Light of the Sun," coming soon! I mean it this time ;)


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